God Calls Across the Divide

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1–5:26     

Rabbi Russ Resnik                   

God does a lot of speaking in the Torah, both in visions and dreams and in an audible voice. The Lord, Hashem, speaks so often that we might miss some revealing distinctions in how he speaks. And these distinctions have a lesson for us, as we seek to hear and draw near to God amidst the noisy and chaotic days we’re living in.

Normally, when God speaks to Moses, the Torah employs the Hebrew verb amar or davar. Vayyomer Adonai, “and the Lord spoke,” is a common formula throughout the Torah. But this week’s parasha, Vayikra, opens with a word used to describe God’s speaking to Moses at only three points in the story.

The first vayikra comes at the Burning Bush. Moses is in the wilderness tending the flock of his father-in-law Yitro when he sees a bush burning without being consumed by the fire. He turns aside from the flock to observe it more closely. “Adonai saw that he turned aside to see and vayikra elav Elohim – God called out to him from the midst of the bush and said ‘Moses! Moses!’ and he replied ‘Hineni – here I am!’” (Exod 3:4).

The second vayikra appears twice at Mount Sinai. As soon as Israel arrived at the mountain, “Moses went up to God and vayikra elav – Adonai called to him from the mountain” (Exod 19:3). And again, after Hashem speaks the Ten Words and the first series of instructions to Moses and the people agree to obey them, Moses goes back up the mountain to receive the stone tablets. “Moses ascended the mountain and the cloud covered the mountain. The glory of Adonai rested upon Mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it for six days. Vayikra el Moshe – And he called to Moses on the seventh day from the midst of the cloud” (Exod 24:15–16). There are two vayikras, two callings at Mount Sinai, but the circumstances around them are nearly the same.

The third vayikra comes here at the beginning of our parasha. To understand it properly, we need to hear Vayikra, Leviticus, as a continuation of the story of Exodus. Exodus concludes with the tabernacle or Tent of Meeting in place, erected according to the instructions that God gave to Moses. And then God’s presence so filled the Tent of Meeting that Moses was not able to go in, vayikra – and he called to Moses, and Hashem spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting: the opening words of Vayikra.

Midrash Rabbah (Vayikra 1.7) likewise connects the opening of Leviticus with the conclusion of Exodus. It notes that every section describing the building of the tabernacle concludes with “Even as the Lord commanded Moses,” and goes on:

This may be compared to [the case of] a king, who commanded his servant, saying to him, ‘Build me a palace.’ On everything he built he wrote the name of the king. . . . After some time the king entered the palace, and on everything he saw he found his name written. Said he: ‘All this honour has my servant done me, and I am within, whilst he is without! Call him, that he may come right in.’ So, too, when the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moses: ‘Make me a Tabernacle,’ Moses wrote on everything he made ‘Even as the Lord commanded Moses’. Said the Holy One, blessed be he: “Moses has done me all this honour, and I am within whilst he is without! Call him, that he may enter the innermost [part of the Tabernacle].’ Therefore it is said, And the Lord called unto Moses.

Whether because of Moses’ faithful service, or simply out of his own generosity, God desires to bring Moses near. He calls across the distance that separates them, the distance of his otherness and awe. The glory-cloud keeps Moses at a distance; the voice of Hashem calls him near. The midrash captures the intimacy and generosity of God’s summons.

This same dynamic is at work in the other two instances of vayikra. At the Burning Bush, God appears to Moses as transcendent and awe-inspiring. The fire of God keeps him at a distance, but the voice of God calls to him across the distance. This is holy ground, but God calls Moses into dialogue with the Almighty. Likewise at Sinai; the appearance is awesome; the glory-cloud covers the mountain and no one can approach. But the voice of God calls Moses to come near, and gives him the instructions that will guide Israel from then on.

God calls to Moses across the distance of his holiness. He cannot diminish the impact of his holiness, but he still seeks to bring humanity near. Here is a remedy to our tendency to reduce the divine to our own terms, to produce a user-friendly god. The God of Israel will always transcend our understanding, will always be “other” to our mortal souls, but he has called to us across that divide. Spiritual growth means learning to recognize God’s transcendence, as well as learning to hear his call across the divide.

This divine intention is evident in the first words that Hashem speaks to Moses after he calls him. “Speak to the children of Israel and say to them, ‘When a man among you brings an offering to Adonai, you shall bring your offering of the livestock, of the herd and of the flock’” (Lev 1:2). The word for “offering” is korban, from the root karav, meaning to come or be near. Through the offering, the children of Israel can come near to God, even though his holiness would keep them at a distance. Indeed, the root karav appears twice in this one verse, for it also forms the verb translated as “bring.” Literally then our verse says, “When a man among you brings near a near-offering…”

God calls to Moses across the distance of his holiness and gives him instructions on how one can draw near to the holy. The offering itself bridges the distance between man and God, for it is korban, that which comes near, and a man must come near to present it.

Worship is the goal of the Exodus from Egypt. Why then does the Torah seem to make worship so difficult in the Book of Leviticus? Surely it is our understanding that is at fault; the rules of offering do not make worship more difficult; rather they make it possible. There is a vast gulf between man and God. God calls to man (or his representative Moses) across that gulf to provide a way for man to worship him.

How different is this understanding of the sacrificial system of Leviticus from typical modern views! We tend to see the elaborate requirements and regulations of sacrifice as creating an unnecessary distance between man and God. In our enlightened times, we like to emphasize the accessibility of the divine. After all, God is everywhere, and we imagine we can always draw near to him. Hence, we see the altar and priesthood as impediments, relics of a bygone era.

But in the context of Torah, altar and priesthood are precisely the opposite. True, God is everywhere, but his holiness keeps us at a distance. The Levitical system is given, not to impose or maintain the distance, but to bring us near. This perspective inevitably alters our view of our current spiritual condition. If altar and priesthood served not to create a barrier between man and God, but to bridge the divide, what bridges that divide now that they have passed away? What, or who, will bring us near to the holy God?

Adapted from Gateways to Torah, Lederer Books, 2000. Scripture citations are based on NKJV.

God's Reputation Is at Stake

Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1–40:38

Rabbi Aaron Allsbrook, Ohev Yisrael, Springfield, VA

God is a specific God. He loves details. He shares these details with his servants. His children hear his voice and they obey. This week’s parashah deals with many details of the building of the mishkan (tabernacle). It reminds me of building Legos as a kid. One saw the final product on the cover and then went through page by page, step by step, as to how to build the foreseen picture. Bezalel, Oholiab, and many unnamed others had the privilege of constructing this heavenly design here on earth. Dimensions were given, materials were specified, how to connect the parts was explained, and the people all gave of their own possessions so that this could be accomplished. It was to be an amazing structure, something praiseworthy, a true treasure to have in the midst of this newly redeemed people.

The purpose of this building was to house the presence of God and allow the people to approach him, with certain degrees of closeness for different people. It was situated in the midst of this nomadic camp. Eventually, God would specify where he wanted it to rest permanently once the Hebrews dwelled securely in the land of Canaan.

Reading through the descriptions of the exactitude and specificity of the mishkan’s materials and design, one can’t help but be impressed. The amount of gold, silver, bronze, and copper is staggering. The tapestry and craftsmanship were of the highest level. And to make it even more impressive, this was all collapsible and able to be reassembled so it could go with the people on their journeys.

This awesome transportable building eventually became the temple of Solomon, a structure made of stone and cedar, one even more ornate and grandiose than the mishkan. It was a sight that gave the people hope, pride, and security, knowing that the house of the presence of God was in their midst.

While this house was amazing in both its incarnations, one had to be of a certain level of cleanness to be able to enter into it. If someone became unclean through contact with a dead person, say on the field of battle, or being in one’s home when a relative died, that person was unable to enter God’s home. This person had to be cleansed, and, once again, God is very specific as to how one does this.

In this week’s special maftir (additional reading) for Shabbat Parah (Num 19:1–22), we read about an elaborate procedure in which a red heifer is burned outside of the camp, whose ashes, mixed with some other specific elements, would purify the impure and allow that former outcast to be welcomed back into the presence of God.

All of this, however, can go a step further. In the haftarah for Shabbat Parah (Ezek 36:16–38), God is quite upset with Israel. Israel is in exile, the temple is razed, and the people have done something much worse than becoming unclean: they’ve defiled the name of God in the eyes of the nations to which they have been exiled. The people did terrible things while in the land of Israel, spilt innocent blood, created and worshiped idols, and sacrificed to false gods alongside the temple service. This made the land and the people unclean, and it defamed the name of God, the worst sin of all.

The nations knew that Israel is the people of God and yet they were driven from their land (Ezek 36:20). While this embarrassed Israel for sure, it made God look really bad. The God that took his people out of mighty Egypt, destroyed the seven nations of Canaan, gave Solomon the wisdom to build his mighty empire, now must deal with the question, “What happened to the nation of Israel? Weren’t they supposed to be different?”

God won’t let his reputation become tarnished, so he tells Ezekiel about a time to come when God himself will cleanse his people so that their behavior will bring God glory, so that he may once again dwell in the midst of his people, and so that they nations may know that “the Lord, he alone is God” (1 Kings 18:39).

Yeshua teaches us to let our good works shine so that others may see them and give glory to our Father in heaven (Matt 5:16). What we do either gives God glory or makes him look bad. The good news is that now, in the new covenant, prophesied about in the haftarah, the Spirit of God guides us to walk in his way (cf. Ezek 36:27). Why? So that God is glorified! He does this for his sake (Ezek 36:22), so, starting with Israel and going out into the nations, all may know that he alone is supreme and indescribably merciful.

With this amazing work of God, we are to broadcast what he’s done. So I pose a question: who knows what God has done? Only you? Your family? Your congregation? Is God receiving glory for how he has purified you from dead works into righteousness, how he is bringing you from glory to glory, deeper into his presence, now accessible to all in boldness through the work of Messiah Yeshua? Our congregations and all our congregants are to be living billboards that market the glory of God. We cannot hide this, minimize this, or rationalize not sharing it. God went into such painstaking detail to build his earthly dwelling place and to purify those who were unable to enter it. Likewise, he guided Yeshua specifically where to go and what to say (cf. John 5:19, 8:28) so that he could bring us into a deeper intimacy with his presence, something that would transform us.

We are transformed so that we may bring him glory by our good works. More than the beauty of the mishkan, our behavior makes our Father look good. So, be specific about what you do; God’s reputation is at stake.

This commentary first appeared on March 7, 2018, when Shabbat Parah and its special readings coincided with Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei.

The Perfect Fall

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

Rabbi Paul L. Saal. Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Bloomfield, CT

“Look what your kids are doing! Go see what your kids are making so much commotion about.” Parents, have you noticed that when your children fail to perform at acceptable levels, they cease to be your little angels and become your spouse’s out-of-control problem?

Parashat Ki Tisa contains a very interesting dialogue between Moses and God, where the Holy One appears to have developed the kind of selective memory problems that we often do regarding our own children. It shouldn’t shock us to hear Hashem say, “My children have gone astray,” or even something as extreme as “they have prostituted themselves before idols.” Or even “they are a stiff-necked” people, as he does happen to say in this parasha. But here, following the building of Golden Calf, we see the kind of disclaimer reminiscent of “Mission Impossible”— “Should anything happen, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

And the Lord said to Moses, “Go down, for your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves. . . . And the Lord said to Moses, “I have seen this people, and behold, it is a stiff-necked people. Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may burn hot against them, and I may consume them, in order that I may make a great nation of you.”

But Moses implored the Lord his God and said, “O Lord, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, whom you have brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand?” (Shemot 32:7–11)

One would expect Moses to become the disheartened accuser of the Children of Israel, but like the audacious super-nanny, Moses pleads the case before God concerning his children. You can almost hear Moses say, “So, none of the honors and none of the lands were wonderful enough for your darlings. Is that why you left them as slaves in the land of idolaters for over 400 years? Didn’t you think they would become idolaters?”

According to one midrash, Moses pleaded, “Lord, I ask only what Abraham asked in the days of Sodom.” The Lord said, “So where are these ten righteous people?” Moses answered, “Caleb, Joshua, Aaron, Phineas, Ithamar, Eleazar and I.” To this Hashem responded, “But those are only seven.” Moses in turn queried, “Is there no resurrection from the dead? Then add to these Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to whom you swore that you would make a great nation.”

Moses knew that only the light of Hashem could make Israel the people they were destined to be. So why would he smash the tablets written with the finger of Hashem when he saw the people dancing around the golden idol? Certainly, he was not taken by surprise, since both God himself and Joshua had prepared him for the debauchery. According to one teaching from Rabbi Avraham Yehoshua Heshil who is fondly known as Ohev Yisrael (Lover of Israel), Moses wanted to demonstrate to the people that even if a person falls spiritually, he or she could still receive the light of the Creator!

A similar insight can be found in the following story of the Baal Shem Tov. When he arrived at a small town weary and dusty from his long travels the villagers clamored to have the great man stay with them. When he had chosen a home to stay in, the wealthiest and most prominent member of the community complained, “How can you stay at this person’s house? We all know that this man has done awful things. Anyone in town can vouch for my virtues and I can provide much more comfortable lodging.” The Baal Shem Tov replied, “We know that when a person falls, no matter how low his state the Creator is always with him. But if a person is full of pride, the Creator cannot be with him. You are correct that this man is responsible for many misdeeds, but the Creator is still with him. You on the other hand are so aware of your goodness that the Creator is not with you, and if the Creator cannot stay with you neither can I.”

The greatest Rebbe of all, Yeshua, would often eat with tax collectors and sinners, much to the chagrin of some self-righteous religious teachers. In response, Mashiach Yeshua would tell parable after parable illustrating the very same point, that the Holy One most desires a humble and contrite heart. Or as Rabbi Yakov states in Pirke Avot, “Better one hour of repentance in Olam Hazeh (This World) than the entire life of Olam Habah (the World to Come), and better one hour of spiritual bliss in Olam Habah than the entire life of Olam Hazeh.” In other words, when a sinner repents, it is as though they are living in the light of the World to Come.

So the story of the Golden Calf is really the story of each of us. It is no accident that Aaron fashions the idol and Israel falls to it at the very moment God gives Israel the tablets of the covenant. In this respect it is the perfect fall.

One of the major lessons that we can take away is the realization that there will be times that we fall, that we find ourselves in very dark places. What precipitates our fall is of penultimate importance. What is ultimately most important is that we realize we need this fall; we need the dark moment in which we find ourselves. It is only when we realize it is dark that we can see the light!

The lesson to Israel, and the lesson for us, is to separate the dark place where we have arrived from the action that has brought us to it. I believe at the moment of Gemar HaTikkun (the final repair all things) we are going to look back and see how perfect each of our mistakes was. Israel fell for us and in turn we fall for the sake of others.

What is most natural is to read Ki Tisa and judge the actors quite harshly. Yet if we do so, our thinking is undone by the surprising ending to the portion. The presence of Hashem passes before Moses and Moses radiates from the light he receives; so much so that he must cover his own face with a veil for the Children of Israel to look upon him. Oddly enough, when we focus on the ending there is nothing negative to consider, there is no darkness, and there is no sin. There is only light, the Light of Olam Habah, the Light of the Gemar HaTikkun, and the Light of unending true love. It is a perfect ending to a perfect fall.

Three Ways from Shushan

Photo-by-Yossi-Zeliger

Purim 5783, Megillat Esther
Chaim Dauermann,  Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

I had a friend with whom I debated politics for many years. With the passage of time, she became increasingly agitated against Israel. She was neither Jewish nor a follower of Yeshua, which made our discussions about this topic particularly challenging. And I found her criticisms of Israel to be especially imbalanced and unfair, although she vociferously resisted that characterization. There was one particular element to Israel’s history that she found to be most objectionable, which she was unable to get beyond: the 1967 Six-Day War. Because Israel attacked first (in the face of imminent attack from armies amassed along its border) she felt this was an act of naked, inexcusable aggression, which delegitimized not only any territory gained during the war, but also any claim that Israel might have to being peaceful. Now, what I (and most Jewish people) understand, is that the choice Israel faced in 1967 was between attacking first, or suffering catastrophic loss of life—perhaps annihilation. But this was something my friend was unable (and unwilling) to see. 

I thought of this friend the other day, as I was reading through Megillat Esther (the Book of Esther) for yet another time, pondering its lessons, and contemplating what it might have to teach me this year. It occurred to me that in the story’s conclusion, the Jewish people launch a preemptive attack in the face of certain annihilation, and by it, are saved. Could not the Jews of Esther’s day be criticized in the same way that my friend scrutinized Israel and the Six-Day War? Though direct mention of God is conspicuously absent from the Megillah (a fact that has engendered no shortage of discussion over the centuries) we see his hand throughout its events, culminating in the survival of his people in their place of exile. The Jewish people’s modern restoration to Eretz Yisrael came about through a largely secular political movement, but those who know how to discern the signs of the times can see God’s hand in it. And the parallels between Esther’s world and ours don’t stop there.

Purim is the most festive date on the Jewish calendar—a time of unfettered celebration and merriment, free of the somber reflection that typifies so many other Jewish holidays. In fact, perhaps it could even be said to be a repudiation of somber reflection. Scripture calls Purim a time of “gladness and feasting” (Esther 9:19), a time Jewish “sorrow was turned to joy and . . . mourning into celebration” (9:22). And there can be no doubt that we are right to celebrate our survival as a people. But at a time when antisemitism is on a precipitous rise, I have found it hard to take a joyful approach to the reading of Esther. This year, it seems too real. This year, it seems too relatable. 

Antisemitic incidents are hitting the news with alarming frequency. Even the events of just the past few weeks seem too numerous to summarize. The increase is more than just a perceived one—it’s real. In the United States, the ADL has catalogued an alarming increase in instances of antisemitic harassment and violence in recent years. This sadly echoes recent trends in Europe. While the antisemitism of our generation has stopped short of governmental edicts, acts of violence directed toward Jews are still a present reality. Just this past weekend, Jewish communities in the US were gripped with anxiety after word spread that a neo-Nazi group was planning a “Day of Hate” targeting Jewish people. On Shabbat. 

This year, as I read Esther, I find myself asking the text what it has to say to us today. While it may be ancient, the problems it deals with are tragically current. What can Esther teach us about Jewish survival? How does its text point us toward the future? I see three ways:

1. The Jewish people must continue to be self-reliant. Jewish self-determination was as vital in Shushan as it is in today’s Jerusalem. An interesting detail in Esther illustrates this point. In chapter 3, King Ahasuerus approves Haman’s plan to eradicate all the Jews in his kingdom. The edict announcing this was quickly sent out, and we read that “the city of Shushan was dumbfounded” by the decree (3:15). Yet not once is it recorded that there was any hint of resistance or action on the part of Shushan’s Gentile residents. While we could chalk that up to Ahasuerus’s reign being a brutal one, we need only look to Bigthan and Teresh’s ill-fated scheme (2:12-23), or Mordecai’s passive resistance to Haman, to see that dissent was not unheard-of. And yet, in the face of the destruction of the Jews, the people of Shushan remained passive—the “good Germans” of their place and time. Much later, once the plot has been preempted, and the Jewish people saved, “the city of Shushan rejoiced and shouted” (8:13), elated at the result, without having lifted a finger to bring it about. It is through the brave and principled actions of Mordecai and Esther that their people are saved, in a situation where they have no true allies. 

2. Eventual victory for the Jewish people is assured by God. It’s true that the text of Esther lacks any direct mention of God (more on this topic below), but his fingerprints are all over the story. Two particularly conspicuous passages illustrate the divine ordination behind the book’s events. In chapter 4, Mordecai is imploring Esther to use her influence with the King to save her people. He tells her that if she remains silent, “relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place—but you and your father’s house will perish” (4:14). Mordecai knows that, while their short-term fortunes are dependent on the decisions they make then and now, God’s long-term plan assures the safety of the Jewish people. Our future as a people is not in jeopardy, even if the safety of Jewish individuals might often be. And this sense of God’s provision for the Jews is not lost even on Esther’s enemies. As Haman’s plans begin to unravel, his own wife, Zeresh, warns him that he will not be able to successfully stand against Mordecai (6:13), being somehow aware that the deck was stacked in Jewish favor. 

3. The third and final way can be found in the unique position that Esther holds within the scriptural canon. As Jewish followers of Yeshua, we stand at the crossroads of two traditions, and sometimes we may have a hard time fitting comfortably into either of them. Similarly, the book of Esther sits in a strange position in the canons of both traditions. It is the only book of the Tanakh without a manuscript counted among the Dead Sea Scrolls, and it is acknowledged in Jewish tradition as being the last to have been added to the canon. On the Christian side of things, Esther’s canonicity has been challenged throughout history. By some, on the grounds that it is insufficiently God-oriented, and by others, on the grounds that it is too Jewish. (Martin Luther described himself as “an enemy” of the book, saying that Jews esteemed the book too highly, and that it contained “heathen unnaturalities.”) While some might ask why this unique text is in the canon, it’s important to see that the canon could not be complete without it. Its inclusion points to the future of the Jewish people from within both traditions. As a record of how antisemitism flourishes, and how it can be defeated, it is an essential guide and inspiration for Jewish survival. And its presence in the Christian canon presents a stumbling block for anyone who might feel inclined to write the Jews out of the ongoing story of God’s people. Esther reminds us of the centrality of the Jewish people to God’s plans, and the consequences of standing against them.

So when you hear the Megillah read this Purim, by all means, rejoice. But don’t just rejoice for the triumph of Esther and Mordecai. Rejoice that, despite the best efforts (and occasional short-term gains) of the enemies of the Jewish people, relief and deliverance will arise from another place. ‘“For I know the plans that I have in mind for you,’ declares Adonai, ‘plans for shalom and not calamity—to give you a future and a hope’” (Jeremiah 29:11).

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

A Willing Heart and the Willing Creator

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:18 

Dr. Daniel Nessim, Kehilat Tsion, Vancouver, BC 

The book of Exodus has forty chapters. Starting with Terumah, the last fifteen have to do with the construction of the sanctuary. That is almost half of the book. It begins with the Creator saying, “Build me a sanctuary” (25:8). 

The Midrash Rabbah records that “When God said to Moses: ‘Make a sanctuary for Me,’ he [Moses] exclaimed in amazement: ‘The Glory of the Holy One, blessed be He, fills heaven and earth, and yet He commands “Make a tabernacle for Me”!’” 

The entire passage will end in another parasha (Pekudei) at Exodus 40:38 with the record of the Shekhinah glory of the Lord, now above the sanctuary in the midst of the people of Israel both day and night.  

There are two essential ingredients required to bring this remarkable state of affairs to pass. The first is a terumah (תרומה). An offering. But that is not all. The second ingredient was careful, time-consuming work. Between the offering and the arrival of the Presence of Hashem many preparations had to be made, as is detailed in the next fifteen chapters. To begin with, though, the people of Israel had to take the offering—of gold, silver, brass, blue, purple, scarlet, fine linen, goats’ hair, rams skins dyed red, sealskins, acacia wood, oil, spices, onyx and other precious stones. It was then that they also had to take the time and go to the labor of crafting this offering into a Sanctuary.  

But there is more. In addition to the need for an offering, and the need for time and care to prepare the sanctuary, this work was also to be done exactly as the Lord showed Moses. Everything had to be done according to the pattern that God had shown Moses on the top of Mount Sinai. Moses tells us in the Torah that not only did he have the instructions he recorded in Exodus, but he also knew what the finished product should look like based on what he had been shown—what he had seen—on the Mountain.  

But why should the “One who spoke and the world came into being” (as we call him at the beginning of Pesukei D’zimrah, the verses of praise in the Siddur) choose to interact with Israel in a specific, limited, physical place? Why was all this commanded? Two statements reveal why the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, was required.  

The first, in Exodus 25:8, is “that I may dwell among them.” The word dwell is shakhan, from which we get the word Shekhinah. While it is forever associated with the phrase “the Shekhinah glory of the Lord,” here it has a touching aspect. It has to do with settling down, abiding, dwelling. God wanted to dwell, or abide, with his people Israel. In his Guide for the Perplexed 25, Maimonides relates this term to the previous parashah where we read vayishkon kevod Adonai, “and the glory of the Lord abode on Mount Sinai . . . and the Lord called to Moses out of the midst of the cloud.” This is nothing less than the Creator of all choosing to dwell among his people on earth.  

The second reason the Mishkan needed to be built is found in Exodus 25:22. Following some detailed instructions concerning the construction of the Ark itself, with its golden cherubim on top, their wings touching each other, the Lord promises “there I will meet with you.” Once again, the verb here is significant. The word meet is not the word for casual meeting, but for an appointed meeting, a meeting of some importance. It is not the chance meeting of acquaintances on the street, but of those with a constructive purpose. In some cases, it is even the word for betrothing, or becoming engaged, to a spouse. Regularly in life we meet with people in the supermarket or at work and just chat. Sometimes we have a real heart-to-heart conversation. It is this heart-to-heart that is implied in God wanting to meet with Moses, the representative of his people Israel.  

When we understand that God wanted to abide in relationship with Israel, and that he intended to meet in person with Israel’s representative, we can see why it was so important that the abiding place, the meeting place, should be carefully constructed. God’s commitment to Israel was far from spontaneous or a passing fancy. His commitment was intentional and profound. Its results were enduring and deep-rooted.  

Our parasha pertains specifically to God’s Presence with Israel in the wilderness. Does it end there? Certainly not, for the Tanakh is full of references both in the Prophets and the Writings to his Presence among his people in the Holy Temple. David rejoiced in the Presence of the Lord in the Tabernacle of Jerusalem. When Solomon replaced that Tent with the Temple, the Lord’s Presence filled the place. Israel’s exile was sadly marked by the departure of God’s Presence, but also by the promise of his return. Indeed, Ezekiel foresaw the day when the Lord would return with a voice like the roar of rushing waters and enter the Temple by the gate facing east (Ezek 43:1-3). 

The Lord took great care and paid much attention to detail when he instructed Israel to build him a place so he could abide with them and meet with them. In doing so, he re-enacted in some ways the care and attention to detail given to the creation of the world itself. Both were so that he might dwell with his people, and that he might meet with them.  

This, then, is a characteristic of the Almighty. Present everywhere, he yet deigns to make his Presence known in our time and space. Whereas we cannot reach, and certainly cannot comprehend, his exalted mind, his infinite space, his timeless space, he has chosen to enter ours.  

Whether in the Tabernacle, the Temple, or through the person of his Anointed One, he has come down to make himself known in and among his own creatures and creation.  

Perhaps, when we consider how the Word became flesh, and dwelt, tabernacled, among us, we might consider how we too might reach across to others who are in different worlds than us. Perhaps as we go through our daily lives we will find opportunities to reach out to those different from us, maybe people we wouldn’t normally associate with, and be present with them, and dwell with them for some time. Perhaps this Shabbat, when we see someone in our synagogue or other place of assembly who we really don’t take to—we might just seek to emulate our Creator and his Messiah and reach across to them in love.  

Love just like his. 

What the World Needs Now is Hope

Rattray Head lighthouse at night - a photo on Flickriver

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18; Haftarah: Jeremiah 34:8–22; 33:25–26

Rachel Wolf, Congregation Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

We need hope today more than ever. But in what do we hope?

Some think of our hope as going to “heaven" when we die. But this is not the biblical hope.

The biblical hope, in short, is the future establishment of God’s Dwelling Place, God’s “tent,” on earth, on his holy mountain in Jerusalem. The earthly city miraculously becomes one with the heavenly Temple, the heavenly Jerusalem. This act of God also transforms the earth and God’s human creatures. This is the ever-present theme of Torah, which is brought out more explicitly by the prophets.

God will bring the whole of creation from a state constantly subject to death and sorrow into his glorious presence. This event, in my interpretation, transforms even the physical laws of the universe, from its current state that tends toward corruption and death (entropy), to its permanent state that is directed toward life and increase (cf. Rom 8:21). God will, once and for all, unify earth and heaven under the government of his Holy One, the just and righteous Son of David, King of Israel. I am not clear on all of the chronology and details, but the astounding plan is very clear.

In case you haven’t noticed, this has not happened yet!

But in today’s portion, Mishpatim, there is an unusual celebration that serves as a brief prelude of things to come.

Mishpatim means “judgments” or “rulings.”

After we read about the voice of the God of Israel speaking from Sinai in chapter 20, this portion opens with three chapters (21–23) of down-to-earth rulings. There are many specific rulings about various types of theft or damage of personal property, including animals; personal injury; money lending; even kidnapping. There are rulings about lying, false reports, and also the shemita year. Here we find the first listing of observances of the Jewish feasts, as well as the repeated theme: “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you (pl.) know the feelings of a stranger, since you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (my translation).

But after these pragmatic and important civil laws, chapter 24 suddenly turns the focus toward the heavenly realm. It describes one of the most unusual events in the bible. We get to see a preview of the heavenly dwelling —which is mysteriously connected to Horev, the Mountain of God. Here, however, it is not the frightening place out of which God’s voice thunders, but it becomes the unexplained setting for a heavenly celebration feast.

What is the occasion for this heavenly celebration feast? It is none other than the ratification of the Sinai Covenant, the covenant in which God anchors his own Holy Name to the earth, by eternally joining his Name to a people of flesh. Henceforth, the God of all creation calls himself the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (Exod 3:15) and is known as the God of Israel.  Here in chapter 24, we glimpse, as through a powerful telescope, the hope of eternal history.

The Historic Covenantal Altar

After writing out the first scriptures (24:4), Moses gets up early the next morning. At the command of God, he builds a large altar at the foot of the mountain, with twelve pillars, one for each tribe. He then sprinkles half the blood of the offerings on the altar, and reserves the other half in basins. What happens next reverberates throughout history:

Then he took the [newly written] book of the covenant and read in the hearing of the people. And they said, “All that the Lord has said we will do, and be obedient.” And Moses took the blood, sprinkled it on the people, and said, “This is the blood of the covenant which the Lord has made with you according to all these words.” (24:7–8)

It is very unusual that the blood of an offering is sprinkled on living people. The only related instance I can think of is when Moses is commanded to sprinkle some of the blood of offering (mixed with anointing oil) on Aaron and his sons, and their holy garments when they are consecrated into the priesthood (Exod 29:19-21). In this week’s portion, it is the whole people of Israel that is consecrated and sealed into the covenant.

God took seriously the oath that the Israelites pronounce: “All that the Lord has said we will do, and be obedient.” This is their corporate response to the Voice they heard at Sinai, and it is at this point that the blood is applied to them in perpetuity.

Sprinkling the blood of an offering makes holy the object on which it is sprinkled. From this day forth, the People of Israel, past, present, and future, is set apart for God. Neither disobedience nor any other sin can change this reality. That is why God saw fit, in his timing, to cut a new covenant with the House of Israel and the House of Judah (Jer 31:31–35).

God’s covenant with Israel is as sure as the laws of the universe. This week’s haftarah portion says,

Thus says the Lord: If I have not established my covenant with day and night and the fixed order of heaven and earth, then I will reject the offspring of Jacob and David my servant and will not choose one of his offspring to rule over the offspring of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. For I will restore their fortunes and will have mercy on them. (Jer 33:25–26)

Celebration Supper of the Covenant

What happens next in Exodus 24 is remarkable. God calls Moses, Aaron, his sons, and the seventy elders up to a heavenly banquet that apparently God and his host have prepared for them. It appears to be in celebration of the covenant that God has just cut with the people of Israel. Perhaps it is a prelude of sorts to the “marriage supper of the lamb” (Rev 19:9). Twice, it says “They saw the God of Israel.” “So they saw God and they ate and drank” (24:9–11).

The Divine Presence is in view as these representatives of Israel dine in celebration of the Sinai Covenant. This unusual picture anticipates the eventual fulfillment of these things at the end of the age. Though we are beneficiaries of the heavenly fulfillment of Jeremiah’s new covenant, yet, we still wait in hope for the marriage of heaven and earth, when the promised new covenant will find its complete fulfillment on earth. Until then, we wait for our salvation to be made manifest, along with the “great cloud of faithful witnesses” of Israel (Heb 12:1). “To those who eagerly wait for him, he will appear a second time, apart from sin, for salvation” (Heb 9:28).

What is the connection between hope and faith? The Book of Hebrews was written to encourage the Jewish believers to have hope —to press on during very hard times.  It is by faith in the Hope of the heavenly vision, that we work the works of God. Over and over in Hebrews 11 we read by faith our forebears did the works of God. Faith in Scripture is not a “thing”—not an end in itself. We don’t “have” or “own” faith as an entity.

“Seeing” this real hope

Vision, seeing (חזה in 24:11) is both our engine and our fuel for doing the works of God. So, let us lay aside every weight, and the discouragement that so easily unsteadies us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto (seeing) Yeshua (Heb 12:1–2), enthroned in the heavenly vision God has given us as early as Exodus 24! Let us keep that biblical hope alive in our minds and hearts that we might be lighthouses of hope in this increasingly dark world.

Scripture references are from the New King James Version, NKJV.

The Upside-down Tent

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1 – 20:23

Gabriella Kaplan, virtual member, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

Seeing the good in things can be incredibly hard. One of the hardest things the Jewish people had to endure was being slaves in Egypt and then having to travel through the wilderness. When Moses tells his father-in-law, Jethro, all that had happened to them in the wilderness and “all the hardships that had befallen them” (Exod 18:8) Jethro responds by rejoicing and praising God. As the Torah says, “And Jethro rejoiced over all the kindness that Hashem had shown Israel when delivering them from the Egyptians” (Exod 18:9). Never once does it mention that Jethro spoke about the trouble or “hardships” that the Jewish people had encountered on the way or the bad things they went through. 

When something bad happens to me, my first instinct is to be upset or angry, as is human nature. What we learn from Jethro's response is that it is better to rejoice about the good moments than to worry or dwell upon the hardships that we have had to overcome to reach where we are now. We also can infer that Jethro wants us to learn from these hard moments by showing that in the end everything can work out for good. 

At Camp Or L’dor, a Messianic Jewish camp I attend every summer, we go on a three-day adventure trip. These past couple of years we have canoed and kayaked on the Delaware River, and a year prior we backpacked around twenty miles on the Appalachian Trail. Before this trip, I had never backpacked a day in my life. The trip started off quite well—okay, maybe just the first five minutes went well. It went downhill from there (no pun intended). I wasn’t at all used to carrying a forty-pound pack on my back. Luckily, the first day was only a mile and a half hike to our campsite. I would love to tell you that the second day was easier, but it was not. The terrain got steeper, and we had to go much farther than the day before (thirteenish miles). Halfway through the day, we stopped for lunch at this beautiful gazebo at a little garden store, which allowed hikers to use the  bathroom and take a break. It was wonderful. Then came the second half of the day. We hiked and hiked and finally neared our campsite. But not without another challenge. Toward the end of the day, the sun began to set, and we were all exhausted and starving. What lay in front of us was a steep incline that we needed to hike up in order to get to our campsite. One by one we all made it up the hill through the encouragement of our counselors and our fellow campers. Once we arrived we laughed and made dinner together.

Then that night, something crazy happened. The campsite was on a hill. My fellow campers and I had placed our tent on that hill, and we figured it was okay not to put our tent stakes in the ground because we were going to be inside it. At around 6 a.m. my friends and I awakened to the sound of laughter coming from our counselor who was taking pictures of us in the tent. At first, we were confused, then we realized that our tent had completely flipped over with us still in it. We all started to laugh as we got out of the tent to pack it up for our last day of hiking. Our last day was amazing; the terrain was mainly flat and we were all still in a good mood. We finished hiking the trail way earlier than expected, and, because it was the last day, we feasted on all the food that was left over as we waited to be picked up. 

That trip was one of the best experiences of my life, and I learned to focus on the good and not the bad. I believe I grew from all the hard moments. Any time someone asks if I want to go backpacking, I jump at the chance because I never know what adventure I might have.

Paul reminds us, “Now we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose” (Rom 8:28). All things do truly work out for good, especially when you are willing to take the time to reflect on the small moments in your life when God's lovingkindness and joy overpowers the unpleasant moments. If we can focus on the littlest happy moments, the small bits of good can outweigh the effects of the bad, and help us reflect and grow.

Like Jethro, we can exclaim, “Blessed be Adonai, who has delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians and out of the hand of Pharaoh, and has delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians” (Exod 18:10). Jethro's example reminds us to focus on the good  because, ultimately, we will remember the challenges but the positive moments will always stick with us. I could have focused on the steep hill and rough terrain, but the pleasurable moments like the encouragement of my counselors, the time with my friends, the joy of putting a tent on the hill and it tumbling down only hours later, and the amazing terrain and views were things worthy of praise to God. “Therefore, whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God” (1 Cor 10:31). 

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

Faith on a Stretcher

Parashat B’shalach, Exodus 13:17–17:16

 Rabbi Russ Resnik

Healing is a deep and universal human need, and praying for the sick and afflicted has always been part of my ministry as a rabbi and teacher—never more so than in recent years, with the Covid pandemic and a good number of friends and colleagues beginning to decline in health and vitality. In the midst of this we’ve seen some remarkable answers to prayer, enough to keep me encouraged, although we’ve also seen some great losses as well. The Scriptures provide numerous verses that can fuel our prayers for healing, and one of my favorites appears in this week’s parasha: Ani Adonai rofecha—“I am Adonai who heals you” (Exod 15:26). Simple words, but they provide profound insights into the gift of healing and how to gain hold of it.

In context the passage doesn’t appear to be talking about the sort of healing I often pray for, recovery from physical or emotional/psychological injury or disease. Here, it’s part of nature, the waters of Marah, in need of healing, because they’re bitter and undrinkable, which leaves the Israelites in a desperate condition just days after they escaped from Egypt. Hashem shows Moses a tree; Moses casts it into the water; and voila!—the waters become sweet. Hashem tells the Israelites,

If you diligently listen to the voice of Adonai your God, do what is right in His eyes, pay attention to His mitzvot, and keep all His decrees, I will put none of the diseases on you which I have put on the Egyptians. For I am Adonai who heals you. (Exod 15:26 TLV)

At first hearing, these words seem to diminish the gift of healing, by making it contingent upon doing right, paying attention to the mitzvot, and keeping all Hashem’s decrees. But before we consider this apparent limitation of God’s healing, let’s ponder two lessons here that can help us get hold of healing today:

1. Healing is needed not just in our individual bodies and minds, but also at times in our environment. God’s creation is awesome and magnificent, but deeply damaged through the rebellion of the image-bearers God assigned to have dominion over it, namely us. We live in a broken world, a world of danger and disorder, but God’s healing power is at work within it.

 2. This healing power is inherent to God’s character, or in biblical language, to his name—“I am Adonai who heals you.” Healing is not another deed that God does, but an aspect of who he is, so that when Hashem shows up in Israel as the man Yeshua of Natzeret, he immediately begins healing the people who come to him from all around (for example, Mark 1:32–34, 45; 3:9–10; 6:54–56).

So, we learn in our parasha that healing is not limited to diagnosable medical conditions, but is far more expansive, and that healing is an aspect of who God is, not just a kind deed he does now and then.

But questions remain—is healing as dependent on our good behavior as Exodus 15:26 seems to say? And what does Hashem mean when he talks about the diseases he put on the Egyptians? The language here reflects the reality of covenant, which God has already made with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and is about to extend to all the Israelites (Exod 24:6–8; 34:10–28). Covenant-making was part of the ancient world of the Near East and the terms of covenant were familiar. What’s unique—and amazing—here is a covenant that the one true God extends to unworthy humans. This is an unconditional act of hesed or grace, and it entails benefits of hesed, including healing. At the same time, this unconditional, hesed-driven covenant includes stipulations. This brings us to another lesson in healing from this week’s parasha:

 3. To receive the fullness of covenant benefits, including healing, the Israelites must stay in right relationship with Hashem. In contrast, God has put diseases upon the Egyptians because the Egyptians, who live in the same broken world as the rest of humankind, are serving false gods who have no healing power at all. The Israelites have been brought into a right relationship with the one true God through his hesed, and they reap the benefits of that relationship through embracing his ways and serving him.

This seems like a straightforward reading of Exodus 15:26, but it worries me. It still sounds like we have to earn healing, and that if we remain sick or afflicted it’s our own fault. I don’t have the space for a whole discourse on this tough question, but an incident during Yeshua’s healing ministry sheds much light on it.

In Mark chapter two, Yeshua has returned to his home base in Capernaum after preaching all over Galilee, healing the sick and driving out demons. The house he’s staying in is soon thronged by crowds seeking to hear and see him, including four men carrying their paralyzed friend on a stretcher. They can’t get through the crowd to get close to Yeshua, but they don’t give up. A house like this would normally have a ladder or staircase to access its flat roof, and somehow the four comrades get their paralyzed friend up there. Then they put the stretcher down and dig through the layers of reeds and clay and branches resting on the roof beams. It’s a testimony to the noise level and intensity of the scene in the house that no one pays attention to what’s going on overhead until the friends break through and lower the stretcher down to Yeshua’s feet. Mark says that Yeshua saw their faith (2:5).

In Exodus 15, likewise our ancestors were to have faith you could see, by stepping out to cross the sea on dry ground, or by stopping their complaints against Hashem and his servant Moses. The admonition “do what is right in Hashem’s eyes” comes in the context of their complaining and unbelief—“Stop kvetching and cooperate with me!” Likewise, the friends in Mark didn’t just trust that Yeshua could heal; they did whatever it took to access his healing power—and that’s the trust/faith that Yeshua saw, faith-in-action.

Evidently, however, the paralyzed man doesn’t actually deserve healing because the first thing Yeshua says to him is “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Apparently he didn’t measure up. He wasn’t paying attention to the mitzvot and keeping all the decrees. Indeed, we might take his paralyzed state as a symbol of our spiritual condition, laid out on a stretcher and hoping only in God’s intervention—faith on a stretcher—which brings us to our fourth lesson:

4. Messiah Yeshua extends his healing gift to the unworthy and undeserving, if only they trust in him. The stipulations of Torah-obedience outlined in Exodus 15:26 are expressions of faith-in-action. And even when we fall short, Yeshua looks directly at the trust itself and responds with his healing touch.

 So here’s a four-point takeaway from this week’s parasha:

•  We live in a broken world, a world of danger and disorder, but God’s healing power is at work within it.

• This healing power is part of who God is, and it’s always near as he dwells among us.

• We remain in a position to receive his healing touch as we keep our lives in alignment with his ways.

• And even when we fall short, he will still see our trust and respond in compassion.

 We may find ourselves paralyzed, laid out on a stretcher, but we can at least exercise enough trust to let ourselves be lowered down to Yeshua’s feet—and from there he reaches out to touch us.

Where is Your Heart?

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16

Ben Volman, Vice President of the UMJC

In 1936, David Ben Gurion addressed the British commission under Lord Peel, who was officially in Palestine to examine the reasons for local unrest. Ben Gurion understood that despite the original promises for a Jewish homeland, the delegation now had other priorities. Yet, with thousands of Jewish refugees flooding in from Europe to escape Nazi antisemitism, the Yishuv was building new cities, reclaiming the desert, and uniting under one language, Hebrew. Their success had led to violent Arab protests and the British wanted to hold them back, so Ben Gurion posed some questions:

The Mayflower’s landing on Plymouth Rock was one of the great historical events. . . . But I would like to ask any Englishman . . . what day did the Mayflower leave port? I’d like to ask the Americans: How many people were on the boat? Who were their leaders? What kind of food did they eat? More than 3300 years ago, long before the Mayflower, our people left Egypt, and every Jew in the world, wherever he is, knows what day they left. And he knows what food they ate . . . we tell the story to our children and grandchildren to guarantee that it will never be forgotten. And we say: “Now we may be enslaved, but next year, we’ll be a free people.”

Ben Gurion’s message was simple: you cannot stop us, for this freedom is already alive in our hearts.

Among all the epoch-making events in human history, there are few as compelling and impactful as Israel’s exodus out of Egypt. It is the touchstone narrative for people who have aspired to freedom across the globe. But in some ways, for those of us who have celebrated it every year throughout our lives, it’s almost too familiar. We sometimes rush toward the climax of the story, and don’t always take in all those essential details of the hard-won journey to freedom.

This parasha opens with the grating reminder that Moshe and his brother faced a persistent, unyielding adversary. Perhaps they were not so pleased to hear the Lord tell them: “Go to Pharaoh, for I have made him and his servants hard-hearted, so that I can demonstrate these signs of mine among them” (Exod 10:1).

Who wants to have the Lord deliberately make our mission harder? This was the great task before Moshe and Aharon: to keep facing Pharaoh’s resolute, “No!” After seven terrible plagues, he was warned, “Don’t you understand yet that Egypt is being destroyed?” (Exod 10:7). The eighth plague, an infestation of locusts, was utterly devastating: “Not a green thing remained, not a tree and not a plant in the field, in all the land of Egypt” (Exod 10:15). For a brief moment, the tyrant seemed to relent; then he did nothing. The ninth plague was even more overwhelming: three days of total darkness, “darkness so thick it can be felt” (Exod 10: 21). Again, after the sun’s light was restored, Pharaoh gave only the pretense of conceding. It was another “No.”

If there is one thing that has not changed after 3000 years, it is the obstinate nature of the human heart. We often look at Pharaoh’s stubbornness with an air of contempt, but it is a detail that ought to remind us of our own condition. As I prepared this d’rash, I had a long conversation with one of the Messianic rabbis whom I most admire, and he reminded me that the condition of our hearts before God is the most essential part of this story. Like Pharaoh, we think we can try to compromise or negotiate with God about our sins. But in the end, there is no way forward, no peace with him, no path to life until we surrender our hearts.

Everyone in the Exodus story has struggles of the heart with God, including Moshe in front of the burning bush and the Israelites, angry because their life had become harder after he told Pharaoh to let God’s people go. Finally, Moshe gives the Israelites all the instructions for the Passover, commanding them to cover their doors with the blood of the lamb.

When you come to the land which Adonai will give you, as he has promised, you are to observe this ceremony. When your children ask you, “What do you mean by this ceremony?” say, “It is the sacrifice of Adonai’s Pesach [Passover], because [Adonai] passed over the houses of the people of Isra’el in Egypt, when he killed the Egyptians but spared our houses.” (Exod 12:25–27)

As Rashi notes, the people seem to have finally understood that God was going to redeem them, bring them into the land of promise, and bless them with future generations. The verse continues: “The people of Isra’el bowed their heads and worshipped.” All those who had been wrestling in their hearts were now ready to surrender to God. This is the turning point, and the climax will soon follow.

The Peel Commission report of 1937 recommending the partition of Palestine between the Jews and Arabs was soon rejected and the British released a “White Paper” in 1939. Under the new policy, the British mandate admitted only a few thousand Jewish refugees per year. In North America, the U.S. closed its doors to Jewish immigrants and in Canada the government quietly adopted the principle of “none is too many.” The hearts of the world had grown cold, but that was not the end of the story.

On May 14, 1948, before signing Israel’s Declaration of Independence, David Ben Gurion looked back over 2000 years of our history and declared how the Jewish people had returned in a second exodus, “undaunted by difficulties, restrictions and dangers, and never ceased to assert their right to a life of dignity, freedom and honest toil in their national homeland . . . like all other nations, in their own sovereign State.”

Sometimes, our task is to believe that God’s work is not yet finished. On Friday, January 27, the world marks the UN’s Holocaust Memorial Day in remembrance of the 1945 liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. It is not a celebration of victory, but an inflection point in modern history, a moment when the world is called to consider past choices and ask, “Where were our hearts?” The prophet warns us, the heart “is more deceitful than anything else and mortally sick. Who can fathom it?” (Jer.17:9). We also have to answer, where are our hearts today?

The God in whom Israel have put their trust still confronts tyranny, still upholds justice, and will certainly deliver those who put their trust in him. This is perhaps the most profound message of all: God, who moves in our hearts, brings a meaning, purpose, and dignity to human life that no tyranny, no injustice can erase.

Scripture references are from Complete Jewish Bible, CJB.

Accepting Our Heritage

Photo by Edi Israel/FLASH90

Parashat Va’eira, Exodus 6:2–9:35

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

The life of Moses can be seen as three distinct movements, forty years each. 

• First, Moses spends forty years thinking he is somebody. He has fallen by providence into the royal court of Pharaoh, raised as a prince of Egypt, while his people, the Jewish people, suffer unbeknown to him. 

• In the second act he discovers that he is nobody. In a rather extended midlife crisis he winds up down and out, tending sheep in the wilderness among the tribes of Midian.

• But it is in the third forty years of Moses’ life that he discovers what Hashem can do with somebody who accepts that he is nobody.

Parashat Va’eira begins as Shemot ended, with Moses returning to the presence of Hashem, pleading petulantly. Moses was sent to Pharaoh to demand the release of the Israelite slaves. But instead of releasing them, Pharaoh takes away their straw for brickmaking and they are absolutely outraged. Moses asks the Holy One how he might expect Pharaoh to listen to him, when even the children of Israel seem totally uninterested in his leadership. Moses goes so far as to accuse God of being unfaithful. “My Lord, why have you done evil to this people, why have you sent me? From the time I came to Pharaoh to speak in your name he did evil to this people, but you did not rescue your people” (5:22-23).

What appears to be an absolutely audacious indictment of the Holy One may just be indicative of the intended maturation of Moses.

By most normal measurements of success, Moses seems to be on a continual downhill spiral. He has gone from prince to outlaw, to sheep farmer, to dissident, to rejected and dejected labor leader. But something unique is happening in Moses. Instead of fleeing Egypt forever, Moses returns to the presence of Israel’s God to plead the case of a people that he has oddly identified with since his youth (2:11). Upon originally returning to Egypt to confront Pharaoh, Moses’ wife Zipporah circumcises their sons with a flint knife, a material act of identification into the covenant between God and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. This timely interruption to the narrative suggests that Moses no longer sees himself as an appointed deliverer from outside the community of faith, rather as a fully enfranchised member of the family of Israel. In other words Moses has come to recognize and appreciate his heritage and his task.

What follows is a rebuke and an encouragement from Hashem that are in some ways indistinguishable from each other.

God spoke to Moses saying, “I am Hashem. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob as El Shaddai, but with my Name Hashem (YHVH) I did not make myself known to them.” (6:2-3)

Prior to calling Moses into service, as the Torah informs us, God “remembered the covenant with the patriarchs” (2:24), but now the disclosure of the Divine Name establishes the covenant with Moses as part of the natural progression of the patriarchal covenant. Moses and Israel are entering into their inheritance together.

Hashem then promises that the land of Canaan will be part of the inheritance; it will be Eretz Yisrael—the land of Israel (6:4). Then, after stating his intention to liberate Israel and take them for his people, Hashem declares again concerning the land, “And I shall give it to you as a heritage (morashah)” (6:8). This Hebrew term, morashah, heritage, appears twice in the Torah. It is first mentioned in relation to the Land of Israel, and later in Devarim 33:4, in connection with the giving of Torah. The term morashah is used in two places to teach us that the heritage represented by the Land of Israel can remain ours only if we commit ourselves to the keeping of Torah.

In the same way that Moses the liberator, law-giver, and teacher needed to mature into his heritage as a fully enfranchised member of Hashem’s Holy Nation, so we, the sons and daughters of Israel, must mature into our heritage as well. The promises of morashah, Land and Torah, are inseparable. The thrice-daily prayer Alenu declares that our inheritance is our task.  We are called to be a light to the nations, to draw all people to the service of the one true God. This is our heritage, this is our call, and it cannot be measured by any of the normal standards.