Crossing Over into Our Covenant

Parashat Nitzavim, Deuteronomy 29:9–30:20; Haftarah, Isaiah 61:10–63:9

Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

In Moses’ final discourses, he makes it clear that entering the land God has chosen, by crossing over from Moab, is equated with entering into our covenant with God. We can’t fully grasp our pivotal purpose as a people unless we understand the irreducible, decisive connection between God, the people of Israel and the Land of Israel and the import of these three for God’s ultimate plan for humanity!  After all, God has called this chosen clan Hebrews (עברים—those who cross over).

In Ki Tavo, after reciting the blessings and curses related to living on the land, Moses says this:

These are the words of the covenant [Hashem made with Israel] in the land of Moab, besides the covenant which He made with them in Horeb. (Deut 29:1)

As we read Moses’ discourse on the plains of Moab, we are struck by how it prophetically portrays the whole sweep of Jewish redemptive history! Can you feel the drama? 

You stand (nitzavim) today, all of you, before Hashem your God . . . that you may cross over into the covenant of Hashem your God, and into his oath that he cuts with you today. (Deut 29:1 my translation)

Wait! Didn’t we enter into covenant at Sinai??

Well, the scriptures seem to indicate that key covenants can take many stages to be fully realized. Let’s look at Abraham as an example: God calls Avram to the land in Genesis 12 saying, “I will bless you and make your name great . . . in you all the families of the earth will be blessed.” God then makes a formal covenant with Avram in Genesis 15, one Avram is to “know certainly” (15:13). And then, because of Abraham’s obedience, God says:

By Myself I have sworn, says Hashem, because you have done this thing, and have not withheld your son, your only son—blessing I will bless you, and multiplying I will multiply your descendants. . . . . In your seed all the nations of the earth shall be blessed, because you have obeyed My voice. (Gen 22:16–18)

Yet, even after three stages, God’s history-changing land covenant with Abraham is far from its completion. Abraham’s seed through Jacob had yet to experience many subsequent stages of this covenant, including Sinai. Here in Nitzavim, Abraham’s descendants are about to embark on a new and crucial stage of this covenant.

Entering the land is the way that the people of Israel are now to further the progress of God’s covenant with Abraham (Deut 29:12–13). As Moses ponders the gravity of the covenant and its promises, his discourse reflects a far-reaching prophetic view of Jewish history. He sees that this people he has shepherded will not be faithful, yet God’s mercy will prevail. Still, at this juncture, the people have an opportunity to walk in God’s ways: “See I have set before you today life and good, death and evil. . . . Choose life that both you and your descendants may live” (30:15–20).

Here are some of the stages Moses foresees along the rocky path of the fulfillment of Abraham’s covenant. Much of this language is echoed in Ezekiel 36.

When Israel is expelled from the Land, God’s Name is profaned

When Israel sins by following other gods, the land suffers desolation and loses its fruitfulness. When Israel is expelled from the Land, God’s Name is profaned by the very fact that his people are exiled from his/their Land. In this week’s portion this is stated in a warning from Moses that saw its fruition in the time of Ezekiel (Deut 29:20–29; Ezek 36:19–20).

Likewise, bringing Israel back to the Land is how God sanctifies his Name.

And I will sanctify My great name, which has been profaned among the nations . . . and the nations shall know that I am the Lord . . . when I am hallowed in you before their eyes. For I will take you from among the nations, gather you out of all countries, and bring you into your own land. (Ezek. 36:23–24; cf. Deut 30:1–6)

After the curses take effect, God takes it upon himself to bring lasting blessing.

Moses seems aware that the curses, the natural effect of the people’s straying, are inevitable. However, after “all these things come upon you,” God is eagerly waiting for the opportunity to heal and bless. 

And the Lord your God will circumcise your heart and the heart of your descendants, to love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, that you may live. (Deut 30:6)

For I will . . . bring you into your own land. Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you shall be clean. . . . I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. . . . I will put My Spirit within you and cause you to walk in My statutes. . . . Then you shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers; you shall be My people, and I will be your God. (Ezek 36:24–28)

The curses return upon those who curse Israel.

When Israel is disobedient, God uses the nations to bring the curses upon Israel. But when Israel, God, and the Land come together the curses fall back on those who have cursed Israel (Deut 30:7–10).

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The last Haftarah of Consolation, Isaiah 61:10–63:9, speaks of our hope: the fulfillment of the blessing of Abraham. It opens with “I will greatly rejoice in the Lord.” This rejoicing is not ephemeral; it is for the time when God finally makes all things right. Here we see God’s “own arm” bringing salvation (Isa 63:2–6). Yet, in context, this is not the salvation of atonement, it is the salvation of judgment: God himself finally judges the nations that refuse to bow to God’s authority; in this God finally overcomes evil and sorrow.

The birth of Isaac is connected to our ultimate hope.

With great insight our sages in Pesikta deRav Kahana 22 understood that Isaiah’s “great rejoicing” here is connected to the birth of Isaac, the heir of Abraham’s covenant. They understood Sarah’s rejoicing at Isaac’s miraculous birth as both causing and foreseeing the worldwide jubilee that God will bring about at the end. After giving birth to Isaac, Sarah exclaims: “God has made me laugh, and all who hear will laugh with me” (Gen 21:6). The sages discuss the meaning of Sarah’s laughter. In short, Sarah’s joy brings the full covenantal blessing to the world: the blind see, the deaf hear, the insane become sane, and all the babies of the princesses of the world nurse at Sarah’s breast!

This is a profound insight into the far-reaching effects of God’s humble plan to create a priestly nation through the barren couple Abraham and Sarah. We may well meditate on why God, Creator of all, determined that the remedy of the afflictions of the world would depend on something as mortal and undependable as the descendants of Jacob. Yet, it is in this very human, yet supernatural, ongoing covenantal history of our people that we find our hope.

Hebrews 6 also cites God’s land covenant with Abraham as the source of our hope:

Now when God made his promise to Abraham, since he could swear by no one greater, he swore by himself, saying, “Surely I will bless you greatly and multiply your descendants abundantly” [Gen 22]. . . . [T]he oath serves as a confirmation to end all dispute. In the same way, God wanted to demonstrate . . . that his purpose was unchangeable. (13–17 NET)

Through Yeshua, we, with renewed hope, can reenact the drama of Nitzavim. We, with our people, all of us together, are poised, standing before the Lord, in sight of the land of our inheritance. Our people in Moses’ time were not prepared to walk in the ways of Hashem. But through Yeshua’s work on our behalf, we are made ready to inherit the land. And we are called, in Yeshua, to also sanctify our brethren for this, our inherited national calling to ultimate hope.

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture references are from the New King James Version (NKJV).

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Distraction-Fasting, Monotasking & Hesed-Casting

Selichot 5782, Exodus 34:6–7

Rabbi Russ Resnik

 As a well-worn saying goes, it’s the preacher’s job to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. They’re both challenging tasks, which is why Jewish tradition devotes, not just a day or two, but a whole season to affliction and comfort. For three weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av we read the Haftarot of Affliction, and for seven weeks afterwards the Haftarot of Comfort.

 And if we pay attention to our readings and to the whole drama of this season, we might not be entirely comfortable as we approach the holy Yom Ha-Din, the Day of Judgment, or Rosh Hashanah. Accordingly, Jewish custom provides a final service of forgiveness or Selichot, starting on the Saturday night before Rosh Hashana, or if there are fewer than four days between Saturday and Rosh Hashana, on the previous Saturday night, as it is this year.

You can find Selichot prayers in a special prayer book or online, or you can read psalms of supplication like Psalms 32 and 51. The most important text for Selichot, though, is the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy from Exodus 34:6–7. Moses is speaking with Hashem after the incident of the golden calf. In response to Moses’ pleas, Hashem has agreed to show mercy to Israel and remain among them by his presence. Then Moses asks God to show him his glory and Hashem agrees—but it’s not a visual revelation that he gives. Instead, the Lord describes himself to Moses:

Adonai, Adonai, God, merciful and compassionate, slow to anger, rich in grace and truth; showing grace to the thousandth generation, forgiving offenses, crimes and sins; yet not exonerating the guilty . . .    

In this ultimate moment of divine self-revelation, God’s “glory” is not a visual display, but a verbal declaration of mercy and compassion. Our sages discern Thirteen Attributes of Mercy that are especially comforting as we seek forgiveness at this time of year. The final four attributes all have to do with God’s forgiveness:

10.  Forgiving offenses (nosei avon)—Avon refers to intentional sin, which God forgives if the sinner turns back to him.

11.  Crimes (pesha)—Pesha is sin with malicious intent, rebellion against God. God allows teshuva, turning back, leading to forgiveness even for this.

12.  And sins (v’hata’ah)—And God forgives sins committed out of carelessness, thoughtlessness, or apathy.

13.  Exonerating (v’nakeh)—The actual text here says God does not exonerate the guilty, but this implies that he does exonerate those who truly turn back to him.

These final attributes call for teshuva, a U-turn from our own ways and back to God. But something within our human nature resists the sort of change that teshuva entails. We love routine and the status quo—especially when it comes to inward things. We might like to try out new experiences, new flavors and colors and places, but when it comes to changing the things closest to ourselves, we’re most likely to resist. Just ask anyone—including yourself—who’s tried to exercise more or eat less or phase out some unhealthy habit. We resist change.

As a rabbi I’ve noticed this sort of resistance when we talk about teshuva during this season, as we inevitably do. I can even imagine some of my readers groaning as I bring up that term. But please remember my job description: To comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Yes, we emphasize teshuva during this whole season, because genuine comfort only comes after affliction.

Our tradition provides lengthy prayers of remorse and confession through the Days of Awe, and we might need to overcome inner resistance to really put our hearts into this practice. But as we do, we begin to see ourselves and our lives in light of God’s merciful presence. We might end up like Moses, who “bowed his head down to the earth and worshiped” after hearing the Thirteen Attributes (Exod 34:8), seeing not only who God was, but who he himself was too.

But we’re unlikely to respond like Moses amid our entertainment, distraction, and info-glutted lives, so let’s prepare ourselves during this season with practices like these:

• Distraction-fasting. Distraction, entertainment, and information inflation characterize the day in which we live. Let’s turn something off from now through the Days of Awe. I think I’ll put a pause on my recently acquired Spelling Bee habit (it’s a New York Times vocabulary game—but I can live without it). We’re approaching the Days of Awe, so let’s simplify our mental-emotional surroundings and make room for awe.

• Monotasking. We all know that you can’t really multitask, as in doing two or three things at the same time, but we keep trying. Let’s refrain for a while and instead give full attention to one thing at a time, hour by hour and day by day. Practice the kind of focus that will be required of us when we actually get into the prayers for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

• Hesed-casting. Hesed, as undeserved kindness or generosity, is a leading quality among the Thirteen Attributes, and we can reflect God’s self-description with small, barely noticeable acts of hesed. Give someone close to you a genuine, but unexpected, word of affirmation or encouragement. Decide not to criticize or minimize the efforts of someone else, even if you think they deserve it. Give relational freebies—and enjoy doing it!

In the prologue of his Besorah (Gospel), John highlights the paired attributes of hesed v’emet listed in Exodus 34: “The Torah was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Yeshua the Messiah” (1:17). Commentators often see this verse as a contrast between Moses and Yeshua, between law and grace. But it’s more accurate to think of it as fulfillment. Moses gave us Torah, which speaks of grace and truth. Yeshua the Messiah embodies the very same grace and truth, living them out among us and through us.

We’ll repeat the Thirteen Attributes in our prayers from the night of Selichot through Yom Kippur. They provide the essential backdrop for all our confessions of sin. Without the declaration of God’s mercy, however, we’d turn the liturgies of confession into a dreary, self-absorbed, and depressing mess. With it, confession leads to a deep encounter with the God of grace and truth, embodied in Messiah Yeshua—an encounter with the potential to change us from within.

Building the World with Love, One Nest at a Time

Parashat Ki Tetse, Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19

Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

In parashat Ki Tetse, we find a list of seemingly random commandments, including this one:

If there happens to be a bird’s nest in front of you along the road, in any tree or on the ground, with young ones or eggs and the hen sitting on the young or on the eggs, you are not to take the hen with the young. You must certainly let the hen go, but the young you may take for yourself so that it may go well with you and you may prolong your days. (Deut 22:6–7)

I, for one, have never had this happen to me. Even so, I can’t help but ask, why? Ramban (Moshe ben Nachman, 13th century) uses his comments on this verse to ask the question, what is the purpose of the commandments? 

In this case, Ramban declares that the commandment is not intended for God’s benefit, finding it presumptuous to claim that God needs anything. Nor is it for the benefit of the mother bird; after all, the Torah certainly allows slaughtering animals for food. Rather, the purpose of this commandment is to prevent us from acting cruelly. This mitzvah (commandment) teaches us that even this (destructive but permitted) act of taking young birds for our nourishment must be mitigated, if only a little, by compassion. 

So, what is the purpose of the commandments? They are first and foremost to benefit us. In the case of this mitzvah, the primary benefit is teaching us the importance of compassion.

In the Talmud, Rabbi Hama explores the verse “You shall follow after the Lord your God…” (Deut 13:5), asking the question: is it really possible to “follow after” the Divine Presence? Put differently, how do we, mere humans, imitate God, who is so profoundly other?  He answers his own question: “Rather, the meaning is that one should follow the attributes of the Holy One, Blessed be He.” He provides several examples: 

Just as He clothes the naked, as it is written: “And the Lord God made for Adam and for his wife garments of skin, and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21), so too, should you clothe the naked. Just as the Holy One, Blessed be He, visits the sick, as it is written with regard to God’s appearing to Abraham following his circumcision: “And the Lord appeared unto him by the terebinths of Mamre” (Genesis 18:1), so too, should you visit the sick. Just as the Holy One, Blessed be He, consoles mourners, as it is written: “And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed Isaac his son” (Genesis 25:11), so too, should you console mourners. Just as the Holy One, Blessed be He, buried the dead, as it is written: “And he was buried in the valley in the land of Moab” (Deuteronomy 34:6), so too, should you bury the dead. (Sotah 14a).

These actions attributed to God strongly echo those listed by Yeshua as characteristic of those who would enter his kingdom:

Then the King will say to those on His right, “Come, you who are blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger and you invited Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.” (Matt 25:34–36)

These examples—clothing the naked, visiting the sick, comforting mourners, visiting prisoners—can be summed up in the concept of gemilut ḥasadim, or “works of ḥesed.” 

While ḥesed can be translated as simply “love,” it is often translated as “lovingkindness.” Alan Morinis, in his excellent book Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar, defines it as “generous sustaining benevolence.” From the thirteen attributes that we recite (especially during High Holidays), we learn that ḥesed is a fundamental attribute of God. 

But ḥesed is not just any old attribute of God. Some streams of our tradition see it as an essential part of the fabric of creation. Some read olam ḥesed yibaneh (Psalm 89:3, rendered by the TLV as “Let your lovingkindness be built up forever!”) as “the world was built with ḥesed.” Pirkei Avot states that “the world stands on three things: Torah, worship, and acts of ḥesed” (1:2). 

R. Chaim Friedlander, a 20th century mussar teacher, taught that Noah’s ark was not a place simply to wait out the flood, but was a training ground for ḥesed (Siftei Hayyim, “Olam Ḥesed Yibaneh”). Noah and his sons and daughters had to work all day with minimal rest to care for the animals. What’s more, they had to approach each animal according to its own needs and requirements—as an individual. In this way, the ark was a “school of ḥesed”—a perfect antidote to the violence that characterized humanity before the flood. According to this reading, the ark was not to save Noah’s family from the water, as much as to get humanity back on track morally. 

Ramban concludes that the commandments are for our benefit; in a sense, they are one aspect of God’s ḥesed toward us. The sages of the Talmud contend that this is a model for us: we imitate God by showing ḥesed to those around us, and even to the natural world. 

There’s a meaningful relationship between “the purpose of the commandments” and “the purpose of our lives.” We can conceive of creation as a flow of ḥesed from God into the created order, where our job is to keep it flowing by giving to others from what we have been given (I owe this particular imagery to R. Shai Held of Yeshivat Hadar). Neglecting to do ḥesed creates a blockage in this flow from God that sustains the world.

Does this mean that our purpose in this life is primarily doing good for others? Should we understand ourselves first and foremost as ḥesed-distributors? Well—spoiler alert—I think it is! “He has told you, humanity, what is good, and what Adonai is seeking from you. Only to practice justice, to love mercy [ḥesed], and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8).

Living in a continual posture of ḥesed is not natural to us. It is radically against the grain to give when we are inclined to self-preservation, to let go of our own priorities—even the noble, important ones—and truly see another person and their needs; to live a life of freely giving. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Love your neighbor as yourself? Habituating ourselves toward ḥesed is where the rubber meets the road.

That’s not to say we should become versions of Doug Forcett, the character in the TV show The Good Place who feels obligated to be generous ad absurdum, letting people walk all over him out of a commitment to a twisted, extreme form of ethics. In the language of the kabbalists, even though the world may be founded on ḥesed, it is balanced with gevurah, strength or boundaries. 

That said, it would be a mistake to contextualize away this commandment to do ḥesed. The teaching of these sages, along with our master Yeshua himself, challenges us to make ḥesed the organizing principle of our lives—even to an extent that would be seen as truly radical in contemporary society.

Recall that Yeshua extends ḥesed even to life itself: “This is My commandment, that you love one another just as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this: that he lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:12–13). 

In the end Ramban finds that the commandments are for our benefit, even (especially?) those that require some self-sacrifice. To truly live our lives this way requires a tremendous amount of faith that God’s ḥesed will continue to flow to us. Perhaps when we find it difficult it will help us to remember the words from our parasha: that even taking a posture of ḥesed in routine acts (you know, like taking baby birds from a nest for lunch) will bring about “that it may go well with you and you may prolong your days.”

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

Creating a Favoritism-Free Zone

Photo: https://raghuraifoundation.org/india-bw/

Parashat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 16:18–21:9

Rabbi Russ Resnik

I long for the day when “Messianic Jewish” is not a religious brand, but a description of the values of our community, values that reflect the presence of Messiah among us. In the UMJC we seek to embody something like this in the core values articulated by our delegates years ago: “Deference and respect are key elements in our fellowship” (Core Value 1); “We recognize that all people are made in the image of God and therefore will endeavor to treat them with respect” (Core Value 5).

 This week’s parasha opens with a foundational text for creating this sort of community:

Judges and officers you shall appoint in all your towns that Hashem your God is giving you, according to your tribes. They shall judge the people with righteous judgment. You shall not distort justice; you must not show favoritism, and you shall not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and subverts the cause of the righteous. (Deut 16:18–19, author’s translation)

The Torah says that the judges, or Shoftim as in the title of our parasha, shall judge the people with righteous judgment (mishpat tzedek). But isn’t this phrase redundant? Is not judgment (mishpat) righteous (tzedek) by definition?

The classic commentator Sforno interprets this two-part phrase to mean that the judge “must not be lenient with one and harsh toward the other,” reflecting the next verse, “You shall not distort justice; you must not show favoritism.” If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll recognize that we all tend to favor the attractive, the loveable, and the cooperative among us over the dumpy, grumpy, and difficult. And even if we’re honest enough to recognize this bias in ourselves, we still must work hard to overcome it, because this tendency, however natural and widespread, distorts justice.

Ya’akov applies the issue of favoritism to real life in our congregations.

My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Yeshua the Messiah? For if a man wearing a gold watch and an expensive suit comes into your synagogue, and a homeless guy in second-hand clothes comes in right after him, and you show respect to the man in the suit and say, “Please, sir, sit here in a good spot,” and you ignore the poor man or say, “Here’s a nice seat in the back row,” are you not showing favoritism and proving to be judges with bad hearts? (Jas 2:1–4, paraphrased)

Let’s remember that Moses gave this instruction about avoiding favoritism to a totally low-status group, a people recently delivered from the degradations of slavery. Likewise, Ya’akov exhorts a community that is inhabiting the margins for the sake of Messiah Yeshua, oppressed by the powerful. Ironically, such groups are still tempted by outward show and pretense. Apparently, although we should know better, we have a blind spot regarding favoritism. Every group, most emphatically including religious groups, tends to create hierarchies, in-groups and out-groups, and outward emblems of power and acceptability—which is one reason for the negative image of religion in general today.

Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt notes in his landmark 2012 publication, The Righteous Mind, that all human cultures develop—and are developed by—religious practice. And most religions entail what Haidt calls “parochial altruism,” that is, benevolence toward one’s fellow community members, even if it costs. This sort of altruism, even though it remains in-house, doesn’t normally increase animosity toward outsiders. For this reason, Haidt, a secular Jewish scholar, goes against the grain of today’s culture to portray religion as a positive force in the evolution (his term) of the human race. The Torah entails parochial altruism for sure (“love your neighbor as yourself”), but points beyond to a wider altruism (“love the stranger.”) Messiah Yeshua carries this to its logical fulfilment: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven” (Matt 5:44–45). This is the unique perspective of the religion of Israel and its Messiah.

Favoritism undermines this expansive ideal of altruism, as our Torah portion notes. We become parochial, or even more narrow in focus, when we decide by appearances instead of by mishpat.

Many years ago, a prominent, but shabbily dressed Polish rabbi was taking a train to visit another city. A well-dressed young Jewish man in the same car treated him rather rudely on the journey, and then was mortified when they both got off the train and the unrecognized rabbi was greeted by throngs of his admirers. When the young man saw this, he apologized for his earlier behavior, and the rabbi said: “I wish that I could accept your apology, but I cannot. You are apologizing to me, a respected rabbi, but it was some unknown old Jew that you insulted.” In other words, the chastened young man was still a respecter of persons, still showing favor based on outward appearances. Such favoritism prevails everywhere, but we have the opportunity to create communities where it does not prevail.

The synagogue, according to Yaakov, should be the one place where no one has to compete for attention, status, or affirmation, but where we grant these freely to all. Synagogue is, or should be, the place where the values of appearance and power, so dominant in our culture today, are overturned. Yaakov pictures this outlook as essential to real faith: “My brothers and sisters, do not hold the faith of our glorious Lord Yeshua the Messiah while showing favoritism” (James 2:1 TLV).

Now is a good time, early in the month of Elul, to examine ourselves as we prepare for the High Holy Days ahead:

• Am I helping make my local community a favoritism-free zone?

• Do I show respect and kindness to those I interact with, regardless of appearances?

• Do I go beyond parochial altruism to learn the expansive altruism that reflects the character of Messiah Yeshua?

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).