Two Ways Lie Before Us

Parashat Re’eh, Deuteronomy 11:26–16:17

Daniel Nessim, Congregation Kehillath Tsion, Vancouver, BC

The Talmud Yerushalmi relates the story of Abba Yehudah. Abba Yehudah lived in Antioch some time in the second century, when we have significant evidence both for a thriving Jewish community, and also a Messianic community alongside it.

It happened that Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Joshua, and Rabbi Akiba went to Antioch to raise financial support for the rabbis. Abba Yehudah had been a wealthy man who gave alms generously but had lost most of his property. When he saw our teachers, he gave up hope of giving to them. He was so upset that when he went home, he looked sickly. His wife asked him, why are you looking sickly? He told her, “Our teachers are here, and I do not know what I can do for them.” His wife, who was even more pious than he, told him: “You have a field left; go, sell half of it, and give to them.” He went and did so and gave to them. The rabbis prayed for him and said to him, “Abba Yehudah, the Holy One, praise to him, may he fill your want.”

After they left, he went to plough his half of the field. When he was plowing in his half of the field, his cow sank down and broke its leg. He went to lift her up when the Holy One, praise to Him, opened his eyes and there in the soil he found a treasure. He said, “My cow’s leg broke for my benefit!”

When the rabbis returned, they asked about him, “How is Abba Yehudah doing?” The people of Antioch answered and said “Who can appear before Yehudah? Abba Yehudah of his cattle, Abba Yehudah of his camels, Abba Yehudah of his donkeys!” Abba Yehudah had returned to his former status.

Abba Yehudah came to the rabbis to greet them. They asked him, “How is Abba Yehudah doing?” He told them, “Your prayer brought results and even more.” So, the scholars took him, made him sit with them, and recited for him this verse, which we know today as Proverbs 18 verse 16: “A man’s gift makes room for him, and leads him before great men.”

Yeshua’s words may also apply: “Seek first the Kingdom of God and its righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matt 6:33).

But in our parasha this week, Re’eh, we are faced with a shot over the bow. While life and death will be set before Israel at length at the end of Deuteronomy, here the choice is presented earlier, and more succinctly. It is a common pattern in the Torah. Present a teaching, and then re-present it in greater detail later on.

This shot over the bow was a warning shot to Israel because this teaching was so pivotal. It is Moses telling them, “See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse” (Deut 11:26). Both the blessing and curse were dependent on the keeping of the commandments, the mitzvot.

The point of the blessings and curses, the Two Ways that are presented to Israel, is not to frighten or to admonish, but to adjure and encourage Israel to walk in the right path. At the border of the Promised Land, with all the opportunity and change of life that it will bring, Israel is instructed on how they might keep the statutes and rules, the chukim and mishpatim that God had given, so he might show them mercy and compassion, and multiply them (Deut 13:17). Even being faithful in their tithing is so that God would be able to bless them in all the work of their hands (14:29).

To receive that mercy and blessing, that compassion and national growth, the nation needed to come together. The choice between the blessing and the curse was not so much an instruction for each individual as an instruction for the people as a whole. The individual is only significant in this parasha when he or she, a prophet or dreamer, should seek to lead the people as a whole saying, “let us go after other gods” (13:6). In this case the people as a whole dealt with the individual to purge the evil from their midst.

This week we read the third of the haftarot of consolation (Isaiah 54:11–55:5). It includes the wonderful words, “Ho, everyone who thirsts, and you who have no money, come, buy and eat” (Isa 55:1). Here indeed is the individual choice. Here indeed is the promise of blessing for the individual, but again, this is in the context of a people turning back to Hashem, for the result of this teshuvah is nothing less than the establishment of an everlasting covenant, “the trustworthy loyalty promised to David” (Isa 55:3). We could read some messianic significance into that promise. Indeed, the twelfth-century rabbinic commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra interpreted the passage this way. Yet, for our point, this covenant is not expressed here in individual terms but with the people as a whole.

Getting back to our story, Abba Yehudah did indeed make an individual choice, a choice to do something for his people by supporting the rabbis. The story tells us that he was greatly blessed for this, but the blessing came after his sacrificial giving at great personal cost. Abba Yehudah was putting the community ahead of himself. The blessing was something that came after. As we begin to prepare ourselves, now, for that period of confession preceding and during the Day of Atonement, each one of us needs to make a personal accounting. Nevertheless, none of us stands alone.

None of us stands apart from our people Israel in its entirety. Teshuvah is not particularly suited for Zoom, YouTube, or Facebook videos. In our personal accounting, our personal confession, surrounded by others similarly taking stock of their deeds, we are reminded that we are not alone in our failings. On the other hand, together we have the opportunity to be in a place where the Almighty can give us his mercy, blessing, and compassion.

May he who makes peace in his high places, make peace upon us and upon all Israel, and let us say, amen.

The Circumcised Heart in Action

Parashat Ekev, Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25

Chaim Dauermann, Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

As human beings, we are built to make decisions on limited information. If we weren’t, it’s unlikely we’d be able to survive. (Just look at how much of our business and our politics are built around making quick decisions in cases where we don’t understand all the angles.) But when it comes to matters relating to God, sometimes limited information just won’t do.

In our lives of following God, we often encounter pieces of terminology that we put into use before fully comprehending their meaning. This is only natural in a spiritual community that is held together through the ready exchange of ideas. And biblical phrases and concepts that might be more rooted in the realities of their own day than in the concerns of our present day can be especially tricky to master. This week, in Parashat Ekev, Moses speaks of “circumcision of the heart.” From his lack of further explanation, it’s clear that the Israelites who heard him, and the early readers of the Torah text, understood what he was getting at. But do we understand, too?

Only on your fathers did Adonai set His affection to love them, and He chose their descendants after them—you—from all the peoples, as is the case this day. Circumcise the foreskin of your heart therefore, and do not be stiff-necked anymore. (Deut ‭10:15–16‬ ‭TLV‬‬)

The Israelites are called am k’she oref—or a stiff-necked people—throughout the Torah, always in relation to their show of obstinacy, their stubbornness. Here, circumcision of the heart is presented as a natural and desirable alternative to it—circumcision of the heart is, in essence, a turn away from being stiff-necked. This heart circumcision is, of course, not a replacement for the circumcision of the flesh that God introduced as a covenant sign for his people. Rather, it is an accompaniment to that covenant—and even a desired result.

But how can a heart be circumcised? It is an image that does not compute, so long as we remain bound to the strict, literal, physical act of circumcision. But the ancient authors of the scriptures were not bound by such perceptions. Early in Exodus, on the topic of his slowness of speech, Moses describes himself as possessing “uncircumcised lips” (6:12, 30). And to the prophet Jeremiah, God says of his people, “To whom may I speak and give warning, that they may hear? Behold, their ears are uncircumcised, they cannot listen” (Jer 6:10 ESV). In these cases, lips and ears are “uncircumcised” in the sense that they are impeded from functioning as they ought to. Were they instead circumcised, they would be free to serve God as he wishes. 

What, then, does an uncircumcised heart do, upon being freed for service? What is its proper function before God? Lips speak, and ears hear: what does a heart do? I am reminded here of a line from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s classic, The Little Prince: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” What, then, is essential? There are clues as we read further in Deuteronomy:

Circumcise the foreskin of your heart therefore, and do not be stiff-necked anymore. For Adonai your God is God of gods and Lord of Lords —the great, mighty and awesome God, who does not show partiality or take a bribe. He enacts justice for the orphan and widow, and loves the outsider, giving him food and clothing. Therefore love the outsider, for you were outsiders in the land of Egypt. (‭‭Deut ‭10:16–19‬ ‭TLV‬‬)

With circumcised hearts, Israel is told to love the outsider, seeing him the way God sees him. And this discourse occurs amidst other discussions of what we might do with our hearts when it comes to serving God. It comes on the heels of the Shema in the previous parasha, and as Moses continues his speech to the children of Israel, its precepts continue to echo. Just a few words before the verses above, Moses reminds Israel of what the Lord requires of them: “to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all his ways, to love him, to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all of your soul” (10:12b ESV). How are we to achieve this goal? Moses puts a finer point on it toward the end of Deuteronomy: “And the Lord your God will circumcise your heart and the heart of your offspring, so that you will love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, that you may live”‬ (‭30:6 ESV)‬.

But how does all of this come together for those of us who have committed ourselves to walk in the way of Messiah? Probably the most familiar passage to believers in Yeshua regarding circumcision of the heart comes from Paul’s letter to the Romans: “For no one is a Jew who is merely one outwardly, nor is circumcision outward and physical. But a Jew is one inwardly, and circumcision is a matter of the heart, by the Spirit, not by the letter. His praise is not from man but from God” (Rom ‭2:28–29‬ ‭ESV‬‬). This passage often gets misinterpreted, even twisted, by those who would have others believe that Paul is denigrating circumcision, or declaring that being Jewish is a spiritual condition, rather than a physical reality. But if we read the Torah and understand the breadth of this concept, we see that what Paul is saying is really no different than what Moses passed down: a circumcised heart is the desired and intended result of being in covenant with God—regardless of whether that covenant comes about through physical circumcision or in the way passed down through and by Yeshua so that all peoples might enter it.

Although Yeshua is not recorded to have given a teaching explicitly about circumcision of the heart, we do have one from him that harmonizes all of these elements and points the way forward for us. In Luke 10, we encounter a Torah scholar who seeks to challenge Yeshua, asking how he can obtain eternal life. Yeshua appeals to his expertise in Torah, and the man names the same two “greatest commandments” that Yeshua identifies elsewhere: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself” (Luke‬ ‭10:27‬ ‭TLV‬). The Torah scholar replies with an interesting question: “Then who is my neighbor?” (10:29). Yeshua responds with the parable of the Good Samaritan. He answers the scholar’s question by holding up the Samaritan as an example: he proved to be a neighbor to the parable’s wounded man, even though he was an outsider from among the Samaritans, who were reviled by the Jews at this time. Yeshua challenged the scholar in the same way God challenged the Israelites in Deuteronomy. God’s callings are righteous, but they are seldom comfortable. They may even seem unreasonable. 

A circumcised heart enables us to follow God in ways we might have previously not thought possible. Through it we can love God and love others, even the outsider, with everything we have.

A Measure of Comfort

Shabbat Nachamu, Isaiah 40:1–26

Ben Volman, UMJC Vice President

Even the most profound grief among the people Israel, according to Maimonides, must not be excessive: “Weep not too much” he says, “for that is the way of the world.” (Hilchot Avel 13:11–12). In the shadow of Tisha B’Av, after three weeks of mourning and reciting kinot for the horrific ravages of Jerusalem and centuries of tragic exile, the spiritual year comes to a turning point. Our perspective becomes more hopeful and reminds us of the command from last week’s parashah: “You have been going around this mountain long enough! Head north” (Deut 2:3).

Just as there are seven reflective weeks from the opening days of Pesach to Shavuot, we will spend the next seven weeks looking toward Rosh Hashanah and the High Holy Days. Our guide into this new season comes from the poignant opening words of this week’s haftarah in Isaiah 40 that gives its name to this Shabbat: “Nachamu, nachamu ami.” The King James Version memorably gave us the phrase: “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people.” In the CJB we read:

 “Comfort and keep comforting my people,” says your God. 

“Tell Yerushalayim to take heart; proclaim to her
that she has completed her time of service,
that her guilt has been paid off,
that she has received at the hand of Adonai
double for all her sins.”  (Isa 40:1–2)

Rashi explains that this is God’s instruction to the prophets: their task is to console Israel. The chapter then leads us to value the sovereign majesty of God, despite doubt or despair, despite the resistance of the nations and of other gods, or even our own weariness. Above all, at this turning point in the spiritual calendar, we see how God calls us, in love, home from a bitter diaspora.

We know that the exiles were deeply aware of Israel’s past spiritual failures, their neglect of the Torah that brought God to drive them out. We hear it in contrite confessions from Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel and then in the lessons that must be taught to the people again. And yet Isaiah boldly promised that Israel would return with the full assurance of God’s loving presence.

Just as we saw in 1948, Israel took hold of an opportunity through unexpected intervention from the highest political powers. They united to overcome obstacles that seemed impassable. How can we explain it? Abraham J. Heschel provides this insight: “Suffering as chastisement is man’s own responsibility; suffering as redemption is God’s responsibility” (The Prophets, 192).

This week, as I contemplated all this, I looked back to the opening words of the haftarah portion. Did I truly understand what it means to find comfort in the presence of God? How does that prophetic word penetrate our world, fractured, conflicted, and now in constant turmoil?

How excellently Yeshua fulfilled God’s command that a prophet brings consolation. One of his most famous parables, assuring us of God’s love for people under a cloud of sin, is often called “the prodigal” or “lost son.” It holds the essence of the besorah, Yeshua’s message and ministry.

In its day, the tale began with a scandalous demand: the younger of two sons refuses to wait for his father to die and insists on getting his inheritance. As soon as he has it in hand, he rushes off to live in reckless sin, squandering his money among the Gentiles. Broke, barefoot, miserable and friendless, he comes to his senses lying hungry in a pig sty among carob pods. Yeshua’s listeners knew this was food only for those in direst straits, the poorest of the poor. So when the son recalls how even his father’s hired hands ate well every day, he makes a decision.

“I’m going to get up and go back to my father and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired workers.’” So he got up and started back to his father. (Luke 15:18–20 CJB)

Within sight of home, his father, ever looking out for him, runs to meet his son who tries to make the rehearsed confession—“Father, I am no longer worthy.” Instead, the father kisses and holds him close, calling the servants to clothe him in the finest robe, put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. They must celebrate: “For this son of mine was dead, but now he’s alive again! He was lost, but now he has been found!” (15:24).

We see the celebration in heaven when a sinner repents. Who among us doesn’t recognize that this is how we’ve come ourselves—many more than once?

This story is not an unfamiliar one in Israel—the rabbis shared similar parables. It is a message that calls us to many deeper reflections. When I think about how we often blame God for circumstances that feel so difficult, I consider that this is also the story of a grieving father. But in a further act of love, he has only allowed himself to show his joy, and not his sorrow.

Comfort is hopeful, healing, the reassurance of forgiveness, full of empathy but also tangible, that welcoming embrace. There’s nothing indifferent or cynical about it. So, I had to smile when I read our beloved teacher Rabbi Dr. Stuart Dauermann describing himself in his latest book as “still a cynic.” Well, perhaps I can admit to the remains of a certain cynical streak, but like our esteemed friend, I was brought home by the one Rav Sha’ul calls “the God of all comfort” and I found by grace the ultimate consolation: peace with God through Messiah Yeshua.

The relationship with my father (z’’l) was never easy and this story has always held some pathos for me. One night my Dad revealed both his love and struggles with his own father who died far from his embrace and disappeared into the ashes of Auschwitz. I didn’t know what to say. Later, I wished that I had given him a measure of comfort.

In a recent movie, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, we encounter a writer who has a scarred connection to his estranged father. Sent to interview the famous “Mr. Rogers,” he finds in that former pastor a caring, God-centered love that changes his life. Sitting together in a Pittsburgh restaurant where everyone must have known his host, they’re about to share a meal. Before they begin, Fred Rogers pauses to say, “Sometimes I like to take a minute to remember everyone who gave us life. Including your father.” The restaurant goes silent. The minute passes slowly, but oh so meaningfully. Conversations around them resume and then Mr. Rogers says, “Now, I feel much better.”

A Covenant of Gratitude

Parashat Devarim, Deuteronomy 1:1–3:22

Rabbi Jamie Cowen, Ramat Yishai, Israel

Most people assume the Torah was given to Moses on Mt. Sinai, which is true in part. But a significant section (the book of Deuteronomy) wasn’t promulgated until almost forty years later. The Hebrew name of this book, Devarim, means “words.” However, the Greek name of the book, Deuteronomy, originating from the Septuagint, more accurately describes the nature of the book itself. Deuteronomy means “second law.” In fact, it repeats much of what was written earlier, when most of the Torah was revealed at Sinai.

So, what’s the deal? Why a do-over? The Book of Joshua explains it,

The Israelites had moved about in the wilderness forty years until all the men who were of military age when they left Egypt had died, since they had not obeyed the Lord. For the Lord had sworn to them that they would not see the land he had solemnly promised their ancestors to give us, a land flowing with milk and honey. (Josh 5:6 NIV)

Deuteronomy begins with this: “In the fortieth year, on the first day of the eleventh month, Moses proclaimed to the Israelites all that the Lord had commanded him concerning them.” In other words, this is a new generation. Most of them were not at Sinai, and for those that were, they were very young. They knew nada (klum in Hebrew) about their history and responsibilities. But this generation was to become the Joshua generation. They were the ones to enter the Promised Land, where they were to become the kingdom of priests and the holy nation that God had dictated to Moses forty years earlier on Sinai. Simply, they needed to know what to do. Thus, the second law.

But what a law it was! Many scholars point out that Deuteronomy is structured like one of the ancient suzerain (fancy word for a lord) treaties between a suzerain and his conquered people (subjects). These treaties often were referred to as covenants of grace. In these treaties the suzerain typically granted land and protection in exchange for complete loyalty on the part of the subjects. Most of the covenants included six features: 1) a preamble identifying the suzerain; 2) a historical prologue recounting the previous relationship between the parties; 3) covenant stipulations to which the vassal must agree; 4) provisions for periodic reading and safekeeping of the covenant; 5) witnesses to the covenant; and 6) blessings and curses for keeping or failing to keep the covenant.

Let’s compare Deuteronomy to these six features: 1) Preamble—Deut 5:6: “I am the Lord   God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.”  2) Historical prologue—Deut 1–4. 3) Covenant stipulations—Deut 5–26. 4) Reading and safekeeping of the covenant—Deut 31:9–12, 24–26. 5) Witnesses—Deut 30:19–20; 31:28. 6) Blessings and curses—Deut 27–28.

Why is this important? The suzerain acts in kindness, and the people must respond accordingly by following his stipulations. In other words, God (the suzerain) delivered his people out of bondage and brought them into a land of their own. Because of his actions, the people are to keep his requirements. He didn’t have to rescue them. He could have left them in Egypt, but as an act of grace, he brought them out.

Here’s a story that serves as an example. We recently moved houses in Israel. In our older home, we had several cats, but we could only bring the two that lived mainly indoors. A few months later I went to our old neighborhood and saw one of the other cats, who was a great cat. I scooped him up, tossed him in the car and drove him to our new home. Because he was mainly an outdoor cat, he cried all the time because we couldn’t let him outside for two weeks. Finally, after I let him out, he was happy again. But he changed. Now, he didn’t want to go out as much. He’d rather sit with me all the time and be patted. He seemed to be grateful for salvation. That gratitude turned into changed behavior. 

For some reason the generation who left Egypt never got it. They cried for deliverance, got deliverance, and whined about it afterwards. The Deuteronomic generation received a second chance. Moses laid it out for them clearly, concluding with a lengthy list of blessings and curses as part of the covenant treaty. This generation had seen the evidence of the curses in the wilderness. And we know from the Book of Joshua that this generation succeeded where the former one failed. They were grateful for salvation.

As many say, history repeats itself. Despite the successes of the Joshua generation, the later nation of Israel failed to keep their covenant responsibilities. But God, who is forever gracious, promised them a new covenant. Yeshua the Messiah inaugurated the new covenant, first with his life and then with his death and resurrection. In the Sermon on the Mount, he not only reiterated the calling and commandments from Sinai but also those from Deuteronomy. As examples, the commandment concerning murder, Deut 5:17; adultery, Deut 5:18; divorce, Deut 24:1; false vows, Deut 23:21–23; eye for an eye. Deut 19:21. Now, however, the covenant responsibilities were higher and greater. Instead of the commandment to not commit murder, Yeshua tells his followers to be free from anger. Instead of avoiding adultery, his followers must overcome lust. Why? Because the new covenant provides a greater and more lasting salvation. As the Book of Hebrews says, “it’s built on better promises” (8:6). Consequently, to show their gratitude for that salvation, Yeshua followers are to keep his higher standards, as part of God’s covenant treaty.

At Pesach, every Jew participating in the Seder is supposed to feel as if they themselves were being freed from bondage. While the actual Exodus was historical, the Seder forces it to be experiential. Yeshua’s life was historical. Yet, when we decide to follow him, it becomes experiential and transformational. Each generation is called to be the Joshua generation that enters the promises of God and showcases gratitude for God’s salvation by living out a life that reveals his character. That was certainly true in my life. When I decided to follow Yeshua, I suddenly stopped doing things that were common for teenagers in my era (and those since) because I no longer had a desire to do them. Then and now, my desire is to reflect the character of God in all my actions.

Are you grateful to God? If so, show it by keeping his covenant responsibilities. One of the terrible failings of our day is to get caught up in the often harsh rhetoric of social media. But hear the Apostle Paul’s words: “Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth [or hand] but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear” (Eph 5:29). Do our words build up or break down? Yeshua said we would be judged by our words. It’s our covenant responsibility to speak and act like Yeshua.

The Broken-Cistern Syndrome

Haftarat Matot-Ma’asei, Jeremiah 2:4–28; 4:1–2

by Rabbi Russ Resnik

We live in a culture of addiction. Alcohol and drug addiction rates, already elevated before the COVID pandemic, continue to rise steeply. And if you include what we call “process addictions”—like gambling or compulsive shopping, screen time, or pornography use—nearly everyone is touched by addiction in one way or another.

One of my favorite writers in the field of addiction and recovery (and, yes, it’s strange to have a favorite writer on a subject like addiction) is Shais Taub, a Chabad rabbi who is into the AA 12-step approach. The first two of the twelve steps are:

• We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.

• Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Rabbi Taub adds, in his book God of Our Understanding, “The admission of powerlessness and unmanageability is not an aspect of recovery—it’s the very basis of it. Nothing else seems to work very well without complete and unconditional capitulation first.” In Rabbi Taub’s view, addiction is not only a pandemic human problem, it’s part of the human condition itself. I agree. We are powerless over our own tendency toward corruption, and only God, the true “Power greater than ourselves” can rescue us—which brings us to this week’s haftarah reading. 

For three Shabbats leading up to Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem (in 586 BCE by the Babylonians, and again in 70 CE by Rome), the traditional readings are called the Haftarot of Admonition. These prophetic reproofs of Israel for actions that led to the judgment of Tisha B’Av warn us against similar deeds and attitudes today. This week, in the second Haftarah of Admonition, Hashem brings a complaint against his people and it’s not a legal indictment, but a cry of betrayal and bereavement over a lost relationship.

The heartbeat of the Prophets, as of all the Tanakh, is not legal contract and regulation, but covenant between two parties bound together in mutual love and loyalty. And so Hashem brings his charge:

“Be aghast at this, you heavens!
Shudder in absolute horror!” says Adonai.
“For my people have committed two evils:
they have abandoned me,
the fountain of living water,
and dug themselves cisterns, broken cisterns,
that can hold no water!” Jeremiah 2:12–13

Hashem is grieved that Israel would abandon him, even though he has made himself like a fountain of abundant fresh water to them. And he’s aghast that they would try to replace this life-giving spring of water with cisterns dug in the ground to store water that will soon grow stale and seep away. Israel is like an addict who hasn’t yet admitted he’s powerless over heroin and keeps on trying to manage his drug abuse on his own; like the alcoholic who’s sure he can quit any time. God, however, is not just the “Power greater than ourselves;” he’s the fountain of living waters, the source of life freely opened up to us . . . but we’d rather say, “I can handle this on my own!” Even a broken cistern seems better to our broken selves than the “complete and unconditional capitulation” Rabbi Taub talks about, even though it’s capitulation to the living God.

In Jeremiah’s prophecy, God is outraged at Israel and ready to bring judgment against them. But God’s anger is not so much about broken rules and violated commandments. Rather it is the anger of a betrayed lover or friend. Israel’s failure—our failure—is relational more than behavioral (although bad behavior flows out of broken relationship). God is astounded that we would choose our own ways and resources over his abundant supply, that we’d choose our broken and bound-up selves over him. But we continually do. Even in the religious realm we choose the broken cistern of our accomplishments and credentials, or we perseverate over our lack of the same, in place of humble reliance on the merciful, ever-giving God.

God expands his charge against Israel, culminating in an ironic picture of idol worship as the ultimate broken cistern:

Where are your gods that you made for yourselves?
Let them rouse themselves,
if they can save you when trouble comes.
Y’hudah, you have as many gods
as you have cities! Jeremiah 2:28

Our haftarah reading pauses here, leaving out the rest of Jeremiah 2. In line with Jewish custom, however, the reading won’t end on a negative note, but on a note of hope. So we conclude (in the Sephardic tradition) with Jeremiah 4:1–2: “Israel, if you will return,” says Adonai, “yes, return to me.”

The power of a hopeful ending has proven itself over centuries of Jewish suffering and disappointment, and it also reflects a profound biblical truth. In Torah and the Prophets, and especially in the story of the One who embodied Torah and the Prophets in his own life, death leads to resurrection. Divine judgment prepares the ground for new life. When Yeshua asks his followers who they believe he is, Kefa, Simon Peter, gets it right: “You are the Messiah!” (Mark 8:20). Then Yeshua immediately reveals that he “must suffer many things and be rejected . . . and be killed, and after three days rise again” (8:31). Messiah Yeshua repeats this saying two more times: he must be rejected and be executed by Rome, and he must rise from the dead (9:31, 10:33–34). In his own life, rejection and death are essential and they lead to resurrection. Messiah calls us not just to ponder this truth, but to participate in it:

If anyone wants to come after me, let him say “No” to himself, take up his execution-stake, and keep following me. For whoever wants to save his own life will destroy it, but whoever destroys his life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News will save it. Mark 8:34–35

Sometimes those who’ve spent the longest time in the faith community are the ones who succumb most readily to the broken-cistern syndrome. We’ve been around long enough, prayed long enough, read enough Scripture, to feel like we can handle things ourselves. We’d never say it in those words, but we do forget our desperate need for what only God can provide. We find a way around “complete and unconditional capitulation.”

As we approach Tisha B’Av, and contemplate the destruction of the Temple and the endless years of exile that followed, we can retain hope, because the fountain of living water is never depleted. Our broken-cistern strivings will never exhaust the mercies of our God, and he is continually inviting us to drink deeply, again, of him.

This commentary first appeared in 2019 and is updated for 2022; all Scripture references are CJB.

Vast. Obscure. Unfinished.

Parashat Pinchas, Numbers 25:10–30:1

Chaim Dauermann, Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

In his celebrated 1962 novel Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov wrote: “Human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.” The quote is haunting, the implications are troubling, but the meaning speaks to a sense of anxiety to which I think everyone can relate. While the existential unease at the heart of the quote might not ring true for some, on a practical level, our smallness in the face of our hoped-for accomplishments is an intractable problem. What does our life’s work amount to when we cannot see it through? And how can we comfortably pass on the administration of our affairs when we will not be there to supervise? All of these questions and more are touched upon in this week’s parasha. 

When I was growing up, I saw the narrative of Exodus through Deuteronomy as a hero’s journey. From the triumphant liberation of the Hebrews from slavery, to the successful transit of the entire nation to the Promised Land, I saw it as a chronicle of Moses’s success. Sure, there were pitfalls along the way: I knew all about the Golden Calf, and the bad report upon the return of the twelve spies; I knew about Moses’s fateful decision at the rock of Meribah, which resulted in his and Aaron’s exclusion from the Promised Land. But these all seemed to me to be minor asides in a story of triumph.

Now, as an adult, as I read through the Torah year after year, one parasha at a time, I must admit that I’ve come to see things differently. Every year, I’m struck by the degree to which this is not a chronicle of unqualified success, but one of disobedience, suffering, death, rebellion, sin, and disappointment. That the children of Israel made it into the Promised Land at all seems only a testament to God’s provision, not to any heroic merit on the part of anyone. I am thankful for the journey, but many of the details are not ones to be proud of.

I have to wonder whether such thoughts weighed on Moses as he took stock of his 40 years of leadership, and knew he was approaching the end of his life. This week’s parasha, Pinchas, records an exchange between Moses and God concerning the end of Moses’s journey, and the next steps for Israel:

Then Adonai said to Moses, “Go up this mountain of the Abarim range and look at the land that I have given to Bnei-Yisrael. When you have seen it, you will be gathered to your people, just as Aaron your brother was gathered.” (Num‬ 27:12–13‬)

Jewish tradition and scripture present Moses as conflicted about the end of this life. One midrash states that when Aaron died, Moses observed the manner of his passing and said: “Happy is he who dies such a death.” When God said to Moses, “just as your brother was gathered,” then, he was assuring Moses that he would have the kind of death he desired (Sifre Devarim 339). On the other hand, in Deuteronomy, we perceive a Moses who seems very much not ready to die. Moses recounts his own resistance to God’s judgment, and that he pleaded that the Lord might let him enter the Promised Land (Deut 3:23–25). And we see, later, that at the time of his death, Moses might have easily had more productive years, for even at 120 years of age, “His eye was not dim nor his vigor gone” (34:7).‬ 

But if Moses was at all conflicted about his death, it did not interfere with his work. Torah does not record him ruminating on his failures or engaging in lengthy laments about what could have been. Instead, at God’s instructions pertaining to his death, Moses immediately moves forward:

“May Adonai, God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint a man over the community to go out and come in before them, who will lead them out and bring them out so that the people of Adonai will not be like sheep without a shepherd.” (Num‬ 27:16–17‬)

He does not presume to suggest a successor, but gives himself over to God’s intention. Does this speak to humility on Moses’s part, or to a lack of preparedness for the end? It is not clear, but that God instructs him to appoint Joshua to leadership is not surprising, for he had been a trusted aide to him at least since Sinai, and was one of the two faithful spies. And once God points to Joshua, Moses immediately gets to work in preparing him, and the children of Israel, for the next stage of their journey.

What makes Moses a success? My childhood vision of him as a triumphant hero may have been off the mark, but my sense of his import only scratched the surface. How do we explain the type of success he achieved in leadership amidst the detailed records that he left chronicling his own failures? The author of Hebrews gives us something of an answer. Hebrews 11—a chapter often referred to as the “Hall of Faith”—conveys a long list of beloved figures from Jewish history, lauding them not for their achievements themselves, but for the fact that in each thing that they did, they trusted God. Moses is listed prominently among them, and we are told that he was “looking ahead to the reward” (11:26).

Before parting from the children of Israel, Moses told them of a prophet like himself, who would one day spring forth from among them and speak God’s words (Deut 18:15–18). He was not speaking of his current time, but of a reality much farther in the future. The apostolic writers identify Yeshua as that prophet, but they also make clear that he is far more than only that: the Apostle Peter refers to him as “the author of life” (Acts 3:15), and, similarly, the writer of Hebrews finishes his “Hall of Faith” discourse by calling him “the author and finisher of our faith” (Heb 12:2).

We are all going to be faced at some point with a need to step aside from a work we have shepherded. We may not know who will continue the work—we may not even know whether it will be continued at all—but due to age, geography, illness, or economic need, we will have to step away. And, to put a finer and more concrete point on it, at the inevitable end of our lives, how do we reckon with what we’ve not completed? How do we make peace with the loss of things we will never do, and long sought goals we will never see met? At such a time, it will be easy to feel, in the words of Nabokov, like a footnote to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece. But what Moses understood, and what we must remember, is that this vast unfinished masterpiece isn’t our workmanship, but God’s. He is the author. We could do far worse than to be footnotes to his work.

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

Ironic Blessings for Tumultuous Times

Parashat Balak, Numbers 22:2–25:9

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

The story of Balak and Balaam is one of the most well-known in Numbers, full of irony, fascinating parallels, reversals, patterns of threes, curses and blessings. The Israelites are approaching the end of their forty years in the wilderness. They have already fought and won wars against Sichon, king of the Amorites, and Og, king of Bashan, leaving the Moabites worried about Israel’s advance. Instead of confronting the Israelites in war, Balak summons Balaam. Three times Balak sends messengers to Balaam to entice him to come and curse the Israelites. Twice Balaam refuses. The third time God tells him to go with Balak’s men and to speak only what God commands.

 You know the rest of the story: on his way to Moab, Balaam encounters an angel of Hashem, hindering his way. However, only his donkey sees the hindering angel. In the first encounter, the donkey turns off into a field; in the second, it presses against a wall and injures Balaam’s right foot; in the third, it lies down and refuses to move. By the third time, Balaam is so angry that he answers the donkey as if getting into an argument with a donkey is an everyday occurrence. Hashem opens Balaam’s eyes; he sees the angel and falls on his face in repentance. The angel of Hashem charges Balaam to continue to Balak, warning Balaam to say only what he tells him.

Notice the sequence of threes in Balak’s summons of Balaam and Balaam’s encounter with the angel of Hashem. The narrative continues this pattern. From three different vantage points, Balak entreats Balaam to curse Israel. Each time Balaam blesses Israel instead. Just as Balaam gets angry with the donkey, Balak becomes angry with Balaam for not doing what he wishes. Balaam responds to Balak’s anger with a prophecy about the end of days and the coming of Messiah.

Balaam’s three blessings and the prophecy of the end days are exquisite and highly dignified poetry, set in the middle of the narrative and developed with it. Without the narrative, the poetic utterances are almost incomprehensible. The narrative elucidates the allusions to personalities, nations and events in the poetry. For example, in both the narrative and poetry, Balaam’s rise in esteem is inversely matched by the downgrading of Balak. In the first blessing, Balak is called the King of Moab; in the second, he is an ordinary human; in the third blessing and the eschatological/messianic prophecy, Balaam ignores Balak completely.

In the first blessing, Num 22:41–23:12, Balaam explains that Balak, a mortal king, requires him to curse Israel, but the King of kings requires him to bless Israel. Two central themes emerge 1) the election of Israel, which set them apart from all other nations (Num 23:9), and 2) the blessing of their significant number (Num 23:10). These two themes echo the call of Abraham (Gen 12:2), “I will make of you a great nation,” and the blessing of Jacob (Gen 28:14), “Your offspring will be like the dust of the earth.” Balaam says, “Here is a people living alone and not reckoning itself among the nations! Who can count the dust of Jacob or number the dust cloud of Israel?” Balaam’s statement reinforces that Israel alone is Hashem’s am segula, his elected and treasured possession (cf. Exod 19:5).

The second blessing, Num 23:13–26, centers on Hashem’s closeness to Israel and presence in their midst. Balaam no longer addresses Balak as a king but refers to Balak as a mere human with a transitory nature. In contrast, Balaam shows that Hashem is not capricious; he does not alter his purpose. He is the unchanging provider and guardian who accompanies his people Israel in triumphant sovereignty. Israel is invincible with Hashem as their King, like a lion, strong in battle.

The third blessing, Num 23:27–24:9, is characterized by more imaginative and figurative language than the previous two blessings. The Spirit of God comes upon Balaam, and he proclaims, “Ma tovu ohaleicha Ya’acov—How goodly are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel!” (Num 24:5–7). This blessing emphasizes the beauty, prosperity, and fruitfulness of Jewish life. Rashi states that the adjective “goodly” in 24:5 refers to Israel’s moral and ethical goodness, and that Balaam is praising the purity and chastity of the Jewish people. The simple meaning of the term encapsulates the full range of perfection—beauty, charm, simplicity, and purity.

Numbers 24:6 and 7 intertwine the motif of water with plant imagery. Biblically, water symbolizes abundance, freshness, and vitality, and plant imagery speaks of upright living. Psalm 1:3 says a righteous man is like a tree planted by streams of water, and Jeremiah 31:11 relates that redeemed Israel is like a well-watered garden and will not languish anymore. The garden imagery connects to the creation of the world and Eden: “And the Lord God planted a garden . . . and made all kinds of trees to grow out of the ground that were pleasing to the eye” (Gen 2:8–9).

Suddenly the poem changes to another type of good—the people of Israel will be exalted over the surrounding nations. This oracle proclaims victory over the enemies of God and his people. The imagery of the lion lying down to rest in peace conjures up a picture of peace as in Lev 26:6: “And I will give peace in the land, and you will lie down, and none will make you afraid.” Furthermore, the blessing concludes, “blessed is everyone who blesses you and cursed is everyone who curses you” (Num 24:9), pointing back to Balaam’s first blessing and those of Abraham (Gen 12:3) and Jacob (Gen 27:29).

In one final ironic twist, Balaam curses Israel’s enemies (Num 24:10–25) and prophesies that Israel will crush the surrounding nations and be blessed while the other nations will be doomed.

These verses encapsulate a well-known messianic prophecy: “I see him, but not now: I behold him, but not near—a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel” (Num 24:15–19). Jewish and Christian interpreters understand this verse to refer to a future ruler of Israel. Jewish interpreters see a reference to King David or Bar Kochva, who led a revolt against Rome in the second century CE, and Christian interpreters see Yeshua. However, neither interpretation completely fulfills the prophecy. We still look forward to the days when all the enemies of God and his people will be subdued and put under his feet, and when war, famine, pestilence, and death will be conquered.

Our current world situation prompts us to cry, “how long, O Lord, how long?” (cf. Hab 1:2). The promised star out of Jacob has come, yet we still live with war, famine, pestilence, and death. As we walk through these tumultuous times, remember three points drawn from Balaam’s oracles. God is the sovereign King who will complete what he began, the invincible and unchanging guardian who lives among his people, and the victor who will subjugate all his enemies under his feet and bring peace. May we live uprightly like a tree planted by streams of water and like a well-watered garden that in the kingdom of God produces abundance, thirty, sixty, and a hundredfold (Mark 4:8, 20)!

Does the Torah Teach about an Afterlife?

Ladder to the Moon, Georgia O’Keeffe, 1958

Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1–22:1

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

 “Christians worry about eternal judgment and whether they’ll go to heaven or hell when they leave this world. Jews are concerned about life in this world, and how to make it a better place while they’re here.”

I’ve heard this sort of comparison many times, and there’s some truth to it. Christianity does emphasize the afterlife more than Judaism does, and Judaism does focus more on this life and how to live redemptively within it. But even a quick look at traditional Judaism reveals that it has plenty of concern, and lots to say, about the life to come. In one of our earliest post-biblical texts, Rabbi Jacob says, “This world is like an antechamber before the World to Come. Prepare yourself in the antechamber so that you may enter the banqueting hall” (Avot 4.21, Koren Siddur).

Still, it’s true that there’s very little about the afterlife in the Torah itself, the text upon which the whole edifice of Jewish thinking rests. One early Jewish text responds to this fact by declaring that anyone who says the teaching about resurrection doesn’t derive from the Torah has no share in the world to come (m. Sanhedrin 10.1). One scholar notes,

The insistence, against the plain sense of the text, that the Torah asserts the resurrection of the dead, is an indication of the importance that the rabbis attach to the belief, while the threat of losing one’s portion in the world to come for rejecting not the belief itself, but rather the claim that it comes from the Torah, presumably reflects some anxiety about its derivation. (Martha Himmelfarb in The Jewish Annotated New Testament)

I won’t argue about whether our sages felt “some anxiety about” deriving belief in the resurrection from the “plain sense” of Torah, but I’ll be happy to consider a hint of life beyond this life in this week’s parasha:

And the people of Israel, the whole congregation, came into the wilderness of Zin in the first month, and the people stayed in Kadesh, and Miriam died there and was buried there. And there was no water for the congregation, and they gathered themselves against Moses and against Aaron. (Num 20:1–2)

The water runs out after Miriam dies and our sages conclude that Israel’s supply of water in the wilderness depended on the merit of Miriam, Moses’ big sister, who was instrumental in saving his life as a baby (Exod 2:1–10) and later became a prophetess and leader herself (Exod 15:20–21), although not without flaws, like her two brothers (Num 12).

Miriam lives on after her death through her legacy, but of course, that’s hardly a share in the world to come, or the sort of resurrection the rabbis are discussing in Sanhedrin 10.1. But there’s a clue of something more in the wording here: “Miriam died there and was buried there.” Why does “there,” or sham in Hebrew, appear twice, when it could have simply said, “Miriam died and was buried there”? The word “there/sham” points ahead to a second death in our parasha. When the time for Aaron’s death comes, the Lord tells Moses to bring him and his son Eleazar to Mount Hor. “And Aaron shall be gathered and die there.”

Moses did as Hashem commanded. And they went up Mount Hor in the sight of all the congregation. And Moses stripped Aaron of his garments and put them on Eleazar his son. And Aaron died there on the top of the mountain. (Num 20:26b–28a, emphasis added)

“There” is a common word, of course, but it’s striking that it is again repeated unnecessarily. We’ve already been told that Aaron shall “die there” on Mount Hor, and then we’re told again that “Aaron died there on the top of the mountain.” The sages see in this repetition a connection between the deaths of Aaron and Miriam so that the details of Aaron’s death apply to Miriam as well.

Aaron doesn’t just die, as we’re told of Miriam, but “shall be gathered and die there.” This gathering is described more fully several times in the account of our forefathers in Genesis. Abraham dies and is “gathered to his people” (Gen 25:8), as are Isaac (35:29), Jacob (49:33)—and even Ishmael (25:17). I’ve heard this phrase explained as a reflection of ancient burial customs, in which the recently deceased corpse is placed in a tomb until the flesh decomposes. Then the bones are placed in an interior chamber of the tomb where the bones of the ancestors lie, thus being “gathered to his people.” But something different seems to be going on here. Back in Genesis, Jacob was gathered to his people well before his body was returned to the land of Canaan and the ancestral burial site. Likewise, Aaron isn’t literally gathered to his people, and the same is true of his brother Moses, who dies soon after Aaron. When the time comes, Hashem tells Moses,

“Go up this mountain of the Abarim, Mount Nebo. . . . And die on the mountain which you go up, and be gathered to your people, as Aaron your brother died in Mount Hor and was gathered to his people.” (Deut 32:49–50)

Aaron was gathered to his people on Mount Hor, but no ancestors were buried there—in the plain sense of Scripture he was not literally gathered to his people. This is even more evident with Moses:

So Moses the servant of the Lord died there in the land of Moab, according to the word of the Lord, and he buried him in the valley in the land of Moab opposite Beth-peor; but no one knows the place of his burial to this day. (Deut 34:5–6)

Here’s another superfluous “there/sham.” The text could have simply said, “So Moses the servant of the Lord died in the land of Moab,” but “there/sham” links his death to the deaths of his siblings Miriam and Aaron. They’re all gathered to their people, not through an ancient burial custom, but through joining their forebears in another realm, in a life beyond this one.

It’s possible that the phrase “gathered to his people” simply means joining them in death without any reference to life beyond death. But Messiah Yeshua draws upon the words of Torah to make the teaching about the afterlife more explicit.

“But that the dead are raised, even Moses showed, in the passage about the bush, where he calls the Lord the God of Abraham and the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob. Now he is not God of the dead, but of the living, for all live to him.” (Luke 20:37–38)

 “All live to him.” There is life beyond this life, life in God, and the Torah itself testifies of it.

We must admit, though, that this testimony is not as explicit as we might think it deserves. One can read through the whole Torah and miss its promise of the afterlife. Why is this so? Perhaps the Torah is providing a balance between focusing on the afterlife to the point of neglecting real life in this world and, on the other hand, denying any afterlife at all. The assurance of life to come gives us courage and hope in this life, and at the same time remains mysterious and undefined enough to avoid diverting our attention from this world and our assignment within it. As the sages say,

This world is like an antechamber before the World to Come. Prepare yourself in the antechamber so that you may enter the banqueting hall.

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

I've Met Korah

Parashat Korach, Numbers 16:1–18:32

Barri Cae Seif, Sar Shalom/Prince of Peace, Arlington, TX

Leadership can be brutal. Many may be initially intoxicated with the idea of leading others, but give it a few weeks, months, or years, and one will encounter challenges. One of the most difficult aspects of leadership is when a friend, partner, or associate comes against you, and you experience betrayal. Betrayal can occur within a marriage, within a business partnership, within the corporate environment, and within ministry.

Not only is betrayal painful, it also severs relationships. Some relationships may have been fostered for years or decades, and yet they can be destroyed within a short while. Jealousy within an organization can truly bring havoc. I’ve walked through this experience of betrayal myself. Rather than address the issues head on, I chose to ignore and overlook indiscretions until it was too late. It really doesn’t matter if you are Moses, Abraham, or Yeshua, betrayal is going to occur, and jealousy will raise its ugly head against you.

As we look at the opening of Numbers 16, we see that Korah had been scheming behind the scenes against Moses and Aaron. Korah had one question for Moses: “Who do you think you are?! Who made you God, why do you exalt yourself above the assembly of the Lord?” Moses was from the tribe of Levi, and he was chosen by God to lead. Every leader needs to be sure that God has called them into that place of leadership. I always saw myself as an excellent follower. I never wanted leadership. However, when God called me into a leadership role years ago, I knew that it was his call upon my life and not my own. Followership is important in any realm of life, and the most important followership that any of us can have is to follow Yeshua, our Messiah.

Korah, however, had his own ideas about how things should be run. He assembled 250 council appointees who were in one accord with him. This was a conspiracy to accuse Moses of exalting himself above God.

They assembled against Moses and Aaron. They said to them, “You’ve gone too far! All the community is holy—all of them—and Adonai is with them! Then why do you exalt yourselves above the assembly of Adonai?” (Num 16:3 TLV)

 As I continue to read through Numbers 16, I can say that I’ve met Korah.

When I read this passage, I still get riled up. I’ve been in this position. Moses fell on his face after these accusations (16:4). Although I did not fall on my face when I was falsely accused, I could feel overwhelming sorrow grow in my heart. I still get sad. As I tried to support my answers with documentation, my critics had already made up their own minds. They knew better than I, and they wanted control.

Pride can take over an organization. Pride can motivate individuals to do things that they normally would not do.  Pride can draw people together, especially if they desire to conspire against a leader. I have been there. I’ve experienced it first-hand. After a few days of prayer, along with ten days of fasting from social media, etc., I knew that I needed to walk away from the organization that I’d birthed. One of the valuable helps in walking through this crisis was a book by Anne Graham Lotz, Wounded by God’s People. Lotz writes:

Rejection, disapproval, or abuse by God’s people can be devastating because if you and I are not careful, we may confuse God’s people with God. And God’s people don’t always act like God’s people should. The way you and I handle being rejected and wounded is critical. Our response can lead to healing . . . or to even more hurt. (Kindle ed., loc. 259)

There is a cost to leadership. We learn about Moses’ humility as he walks through this trial. It’s one thing to endure pain that is physical, but it’s another thing when those who were your friends turn on you. Moses did not decide this issue within his own ability. He turned the test over to God.

Then he said to Korah and all his following saying, “In the morning Adonai will reveal who is His and who is holy. The one whom He will let come near to Him will be the one He chooses to come near to Him. Do this, Korah and your whole following! Take for yourselves censers. Put fire and incense into them in the presence of Adonai. Tomorrow the man that Adonai chooses will be the holy one! You sons of Levi are the ones who have gone too far!” (Num 16:5–7)

 We then read about the showdown. Korah, Dathan, and Abiram brought firepans before the Lord, and Moses “warned the assembly saying, ‘Move away from the tents of these wicked men! Don’t touch anything that is theirs, or you will be swept away because of all their sins!’”

So they moved away from near the dwelling of Korah, Dathan and Abiram. Dathan and Abiram came outside and were standing at the entrance of their tents with their wives, their children, and their little ones.

Moses said, “By this you will know that Adonai has sent me to do all these works, that they are not from my own heart. If every one of these men die a common death and experience what happens to all people, then Adonai has not sent me. But if Adonai brings about a new thing, and the earth opens her mouth and swallows them and everything that is theirs, and they go down alive into Sheol, then you will know that these men have despised Adonai.” (Num 16:26–30)

My guess is that Korah, Dathan and Abiram had no idea that they would soon suddenly perish, but as soon as Moses finished saying these things, the ground split under them.

The earth opened its mouth and swallowed them, along with all their households, all of Korah’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, they and everything that was theirs. The earth closed over them, and they were gone from among the community.

All Israel around them fled at their outcry, for they shouted, “Perhaps the earth will swallow us!”

Fire also came out from Adonai and consumed the 250 men offering the incense. (Num 16:32–35)

There is a point in ministry leadership when we realize have to turn it all over to God. As we approach our battles, we can acknowledge our weakness. “I have been crucified with Messiah! It is no longer I who live but Messiah lives in me. And the life I now live in the body, I live by trusting Ben Elohim, who loved me and gave Himself up for me” (Gal 2:20). We surrender our finiteness into the hands of Infinite God and wait on Him, to bring forth His perfect results.

We believers in Yeshua are so blessed because we can turn to God’s word and receive comfort. The Ruach HaKodesh, the Holy Spirit, will lead us into all truth. What great encouragement we receive from Hebrews 12:3: “Consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you may not grow weary in your souls and lose heart.” 

When we go through these challenging times, we can rest assured that the Lord is in control. What a comfort! What joy! We can trust Him to give just enough light for the next step. He is our Rock of Refuge, and we can trust Him.

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

Follow Fear or Follow Faith?

Parashat Shelach L’kha: Numbers 13:1–15:41; Haftarah: Joshua 2:1–24

Rachel Wolf, Congregation Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

In last week’s portion, Beha’alotkha, the people of Israel, following the cloud of the Lord, moved for the first time, after more than a year, from the Wilderness of Sinai. There they had heard the voice of God from the Mountain and, as one people, had sincerely proclaimed fidelity to God’s covenant. However, Fear quickly led them to desperately seek solace in other (more manageable) gods, like the calf of gold. After the glorious descriptions in Beha’alotkha of the tribes and the Mishkan departing the camp at Sinai in beautiful order, there is almost immediate complaining and weeping. Fear has struck again, causing all manner of discontent and accusations.

In this week’s portion Israel has moved on to the Wilderness of Paran. The location of Paran is not certain but seems to be on the west side of the Gulf of Aqaba, southwest of Eilat. Here we are at a crossroads. Moses is making preparations, per God’s instructions, to enter and conquer the Land of Israel’s inheritance.

The Twelve

In chapter 13, Moses sends out twelve men, a man from every tribe, “every one a leader among them,” to spy out the land. This action reveals the partnership between God and his people that marks all of our godly activities here on earth: We follow God’s word to do his work, yet we also have to prepare by developing intelligent plans. Herein lies our dilemma. Because we are charged with practical and creative responsibility, it is often hard to know how, or where, faith comes into the picture. It is easy to take on the responsibility, not only for planning and doing, but for the outcome.

When the twelve return, they all agree it is a good land. But, having seen the inhabitants of the land, ten of them allow themselves to retreat into Fear. They fear the unknown; they assess their inadequacy to do the job; and they blubber that this whole “leaving Egypt” idea was a big mistake.

But it’s worse than that!

Remember: every one of these men are the chosen, respected “leaders among [the tribes].” Not only do they quickly retreat into Fear, they exaggerate the dangers and by their report bring “all the congregation” into such a fearful state that the people weep all night and decide to choose a leader who will take them back to Egypt! (14:1–4).

I want to say something here about the importance of young leadership. At this point, Moses and Aaron simply fall on their faces (14:5), presumably praying. But I suspect they are also totally exhausted by the continuous complaining and inability of the people to believe God and bear with some difficulties.

This is when Caleb and Joshua step up, take the helm, and speak up. They tear their clothes in the traditional act of mourning and repentance, and then speak forcefully to the people not to fear (14:6–10). Unfortunately, they could not unearth the quickly sprouting seeds of fear that had been recklessly sown by the ten. God had to step in. But these courageous young leaders continued to serve Moses and the people of Israel until they entered the Land.

The fateful consequence of following Fear is that none of the “fear generation” enter the land of promise. In addition, they sentence their children and grandchildren to 40 years of wandering in the wilderness.

Now, let’s look at the Second Round of Spies, in our Haftarah portion, Joshua 2.

Forty years later, poised to enter the Land, Joshua, now in top leadership, sends, this time, two spies (it seems Joshua learned something from his previous intelligence gathering experience) to check out the situation at Jericho. The spies meet Rahab, a woman who lives right at the wall of the city and seems to be somewhat of a busybody—up on all of the news! She tells these two Israelites that the “terror of the Israelites and their God has fallen on the people of the land” and they are all faint-hearted. She hides the two spies, shows them kindness, and works out a deal with them to preserve her family when they come back to destroy the city. The ten spies in Shelach L’kha let Fear control them when they saw the sheer size of the giant Anakites. With hindsight we can now see that the fear of the Lord had fallen on the inhabitants of the land, giving the Israelites a significant advantage.

Rahab feared, but her fear led her to faith in the God of Israel.

Had the ten leader-spies forty years earlier controlled their natural human emotion of fear, and allowed themselves to be encouraged by the faith of Joshua and Caleb (surely the twelve conferred together as they trudged back to Paran), the outcome would have been quite different. They would have had to fight, but God knew that fear would become their ally instead of their mortal enemy. He, himself, would cause the hearts of the people dwelling in the land to “melt with fear,” as the story of the exodus spread abroad.

As we focus on God’s Word, and allow ourselves to be encouraged by those blessed with positive faith, we can turn our fears into faith in God’s goodness and into positive action. Fear is a malicious and miserly taskmaster. To give in to fear is to retreat into helplessness, to use our God-given imagination against ourselves. God desires that we partner with him with faith in his faithfulness. This will, at times, entail enduring suffering, but it is the only way to achieve his best in and for us.

In my experience this is easy to understand but quite a bit harder to actually accomplish, especially as the world grows dark around us. We are creatures who naturally seek safety for ourselves and for our loved ones. There are no pat answers. Yeshua, in Luke 21, exhorts us to stay alert and aware, yet to realize that “when these things begin to take place, straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” And as we approach the period of the haftarot of rebuke and consolation, we can join together, with our ancestors, and feed our imaginations with the sublime words of Isaiah:

Arise, shine, for your light has come,

and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.

For behold, darkness shall cover the earth,

and thick darkness the peoples;

but the Lord will arise upon you,

and his glory will be seen upon you. (Isa 60:1–2)