Staying in a Place Called Calm

Week Three of the Omer

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

This week as we count the Omer, we are examining the middot (character traits) of Peace and Patience. The Apostolic Witness refers to these as “Fruit of the Spirit,” or the character we demonstrate when we live by God’s highest standards as presented in Torah and guided by the Spirit of Hashem. But the practice of Mussar and the Apostolic instruction do not present these as magic manifestations, but rather the result of an ongoing attempt to be image bearers of the Holy Blessing One. I have found that the fruit of patience and peace are most evident when I allow myself to live in a place called calm.

In the fall of 1985 Hurricane Gloria worked its way up the eastern coast of the United States, eventually crossing the Long Island Sound and passing over Milford, Connecticut, where I resided with my family. To the best of my knowledge, I had never before seen a category 4 hurricane or anything close to it.  So as the storm was developing over the small beach community, I drove to a public beach and parked in the empty municipal lot. As I trudged toward the beach, I fought my way through the driving winds and rain. I was able to get within about 100 yards of where low tide should have been before being hit with the spray of the crashing waves. This was the end of my misplaced bravado, and I ran back to my car and drove toward home and high ground.

From the relative safety of the third floor of our steel frame apartment complex we spent hours observing the storm and its many vicissitudes. Then the unexpected occurred. The eye of the storm passed over Milford. The winds subsided, the rain reduced to a drizzle and the sky took on a strange luminescence surrounded by an ominous frame of dark threat. It was then that I had an odd epiphany; calm is a place, a strange and unfamiliar place.

I don’t generally do calm, and I certainly don’t do it well. I hadn’t really known that, because I had never been there before. I had always been good at fighting through and surviving life’s struggles, but I had never actually patiently sat in the eye of a storm before. I really didn’t know if I liked it, but I reckoned it was certainly a lot safer than walking in the storm. It was like being unable to scratch an itch, and yet learning how to ignore it. I previously understood calm as a condition that certain other people had, an innate passivity. I learned that calm is not only a place, but also one that requires active occupation. I have spent the last 37 years trying to get a little more comfortable in the place called calm. Here are a few of the lessons I have learnt:

Cede Control – This means letting go of trying to control things over which you have no control anyway. I believe one of the prime causes of our anxiety is our wanting things to be different than they are. Yes, we all want a peaceful world instead of a world filled with weapons of mass destruction. Yes, we all want health instead of illness. Yes, we all want healthy, happy children instead of children who break our hearts. But sometimes life doesn’t hand us what we want. When we stop needing it to all to be a certain way, we can breathe a sigh of relief and open the door to a more powerful way of living.

Regain Control – When we fully understand that you have little control over the external world, we then have two choices: either we can choose to see ourselves as victims at the mercy of circumstances or we can choose to develop the trust that, no matter what happens in our lives or in the world, we will have the inner strength to create something good from it all. I have found one way to develop personal trust is to cut off negativity by saying over and over again, “Whatever happens in my life, I’ll handle it!”  So, when the “what-if’s” are driving me crazy, I simply cut them off by saying over and over again, “Whatever happens, I’ll handle it!” I’ve actually learned at times to handle it and get some sleep in the interim! 

Embrace the Experience – Yes, you can learn and find strength from anything that happens to you, so despite what is happening in your life and in the world, constantly remind yourself “I can learn from this.” When you can see the opportunities inherent in all situations, good or bad, it truly helps you embrace all the uncertainty in your life. A prayer that I have found God will always answer when prayed sincerely is this, “Father, please accept me as I am, with all of my idiosyncrasies and foibles. Help me to grow from my mistakes and take my imperfections so that I might be of maximum service to you and others.”

Trust God – Oops! Who inserted that platitude? Can we honestly say, “Everything is happening perfectly,” when the world appears to be going to hell in a hand basket? Despite poverty, illness, and global anxiety we can truly begin looking for the good in any situation that life hands us. So, why add to the angst? When we look for good, we always find it. Yes, so much good can come from so much that is bad. In that respect, everything truly is happening perfectly. Besides God really can use all things for good. So when things seem very difficult in your life or in the world, I just keep reassuring myself that God is in control, that the Chief Architect has not only created the world but maintains it as well. I have a friend who likes to say, “When the King is on the throne, I don’t have to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders.”

Get Involved – The fact that God is in control does not negate my responsibility to get involved. Positive action has an amazing effect on our psyche. As we take action, we begin to feel more powerful and our fear about the future decreases considerably. I like to think to myself, “My life has purpose and I will do whatever I can to improve my small corner of the universe.” Or in the words of Rabbi Tarfon, “It is not for you to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.”

It is not easy to stay in this strange and mysterious place called calm. Outside its oddly luminous confines are dark clouds that need to be dealt with. I have found that when I cede control over creation to the Creator, I can regain control of my own inner sanctum, and even make a difference in the small corner of the world that I co-habit. And I don’t have to do it alone. It takes a lot of work for me to stay in a place called Calm, and I am not sure I like it. But it is certainly safer than the storm.

Where Do We Find Real Joy?

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Rabbi Rich Nichol, Congregation Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

I know it’s still Pesach, but looking ahead to the end of mandatory matzah munching, let me ask you a question: How do you feel about almond croissants? I will tell you the truth: I love them and probably indulge too often. But, that moment of sitting with a cup of good coffee accompanied by that glazed, nut-encrusted treasure . . . is a joy.

Unless . . . unless . . . the almond paste is missing! If it still is, after I take two exploratory bites without finding a hint of almond paste, my joy disappears. I turn to aggressive munching, like a frantic prospector, searching for the gooey gold, the sweet soul of the pastry. And if I don’t find that mother lode by the second-to-last bite, my joy evaporates further into disappointment. “A barren, soulless almond croissant! How capricious can the universe be?”

The silly mood lasts for a total of one or two minutes. Then, outside the bakery I hop on my trusty bicycle, begin riding, and feeling the bracing New England air, I’m back to my more usual emotional set point.

But, oh, how we live for moments of joy! Let’s talk about this week’s Torah portion. Let’s discuss the most powerful source of genuine joy, not the momentary almond croissant kind, but the kind God would have us all experience every day.

We begin with a midrash, a rabbinic story about Moses’ brother Aaron following the golden calf incident. We read in Leviticus 9:7 that Moses summoned his brother Aaron the Kohen at a critical moment when it was time to institute patterns of regular worship among our people Israel: 

Then Moses said to Aaron, “Come to the altar and sacrifice your sin offering and your burnt offering to purify yourself and the people. Then present the offerings of the people to purify them, making them right with the Lord, just as he has commanded.”

 The commentary goes like this:

 There is a tradition that Aaron had to be urged to bring his purification offering, a calf, because he was embarrassed. It reminded him of his role in the fashioning of the golden calf. Moses, however, assured him, “Your sin has been forgiven because you were ashamed.” (Etz Chaim Torah and Commentary, 631)

But what could this incident possibly have to do with joy? I suggest that real joy—not the “croissant” kind—is rooted in relationship. Here we have brother Aaron being ordered by Moses, the family’s spiritual giant, to begin his sacred work by offering a calf, the same kind of animal that occasioned Aaron’s profound shame. “I fouled up so badly by making the golden calf! How can I possibly serve God, my people Am Yisrael, and my fabulous brother by offering this animal?”

 In the midrash, Moses senses reluctant Aaron’s immobilizing shame and essentially says, “Don’t worry, brother. What is past is past. You’ve been forgiven by Hashem, by me and by your people. Now, let’s get to the work at hand!”

 If you were Aaron, how would you have felt after hearing these reassuring words? I want to suggest you would have felt joy! Let’s take a closer look.

Real joy arises out of real relationships. Aaron’s shame could only be resolved in relationship. He loved and trusted his brother. Moses’ words were probably reinforced by a comforting hand on his shoulder, a genuine smile, and a deep, reassuring gaze. These made all the difference. Feelings of guilt, alienation and inadequacy were replaced by true joy.

What can we learn from this poignant interpretation of an encounter between Moses and Aaron?

When we Messianic Jews look into the face of Yeshua, what do we see? God’s Ruach can bring images to our sanctified imaginations of what he looked like and how he spoke during his sojourn among Am Yisrael, the people of Israel, two thousand years ago. As he looks at you what do you see? I will tell you what I see. I see an image of love mixed with a profound understanding of the complexities of the human condition. I see acceptance, despite my hidden and obvious faults; I sense his beckoning me to a higher kind of life. That kind gaze, though so accepting of me, simultaneously bears the intimation of a grandeur that can bring the entire universe to its knees in pure adoration.

Again, what do you see when you imagine Messiah?

During this period of the Counting of the Omer our UMJC community has been called to shape our thoughts and prayers in terms of the Fruits of the Spirit as catalogued by Rav Shaul in Galatians 5:22–23. I will paraphrase the verse in traditional Jewish terms:

But the fruit of the Ruach is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against these “middot”—these holy qualities of character—there is no prohibition.

Clearly, all of these character-defining qualities are important. But notice the word order. First, love, of course. But, what follows immediately after? Joy! 

As we travel together as a UMJC community toward Shavuot let’s ask God to grant us greater reserves of joy—not the momentary “almond croissant” kind, but the joy which flows from ever-deepening relationships with him and with people in our congregations and families. Of course, there are the truly toxic people whom we must avoid. But with many in our spheres of life, joy awaits us if we choose to go deeper in helpfulness, vulnerability, and trust

We thank God for the opportunities to grow in character, the fruits of the Spirit. Now is the time to choose . . . joy!

Real Love Has Legs

Passover 5783

Rabbi Russ Resnik

The account of our exodus from Egypt is a love story. When we retell it each year at the Passover Seder, it’s framed by four cups of wine that—the sages tell us (Genesis Rabbah 88.5; Exodus Rabbah 6.4)—reflect God’s four-fold promise at the beginning of the story, as he instructs Moses:

Therefore, say to the Children of Israel:
I am Hashem.
I will bring you out from beneath the burdens of Egypt;
I will rescue you from servitude to them;
I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, with great acts-of-judgment,
I will take you for me as a people, and I will be for you as a God;
and you shall know that I am Hashem your God, who brings you out  
from beneath the burdens of Egypt. (Exod 6:6–7 Schocken Bible, adapted)

Hashem’s promises to Israel here are highly relational, and even romantic, if I can stretch that term a bit. Translator Everett Fox comments on the final promise, V’lakachti: “I will take you … : This covenant language recalls the vocabulary of marriage in many societies (‘take you,’ ‘be for/to you’).” Or as the Jewish Study Bible has it:

The expression of this relationship (“take” and “be someone’s x”) is modeled on idioms for marrying and adopting (Gen. 4:19; Exod. 2:10; Deut. 24:1–2; 2 Sam. 7:14), implying the intimate nature of the intended relationship between God and Israel.

The romance of Passover is intimate, but it’s not all moonlight and roses; it’s active. Each of the four “I will” promises of Exodus 6 entails a verb. Hashem will act toward Israel on the real-life stage of human history to set us free and quite literally bring us to himself at Mount Sinai. The encounter at Sinai is often imagined in midrash as a wedding scene, with the glory-cloud over the mount providing the wedding canopy or chuppah, the Ten Words of Exodus 20 as the ketubah or wedding contract, and so on.

So, if Passover is a love story, it teaches us that real love has legs.

The feelings are important, of course, but they’re not the leading edge. At Sinai, Hashem promises to act on behalf of his people, and he expects a response of action as well—“Now then, if you listen closely to My voice, and keep My covenant, then you will be My own treasure from among all people (Exod 19:5 TLV); and Moses took the “Scroll of the Covenant and read it in the hearing of the people. Again they said, ‘All that Adonai has spoken, we will do and obey’” (Exod 24:7 TLV).

This year in the UMJC community, we will count the Omer together, as we’ve done for several years now. Following Leviticus 23:15–16, we count the seven weeks from Passover to Shavuot, anniversary of the intimate encounter at Sinai. Our theme this year is the Fruit of the Spirit listed in Galatians 5, and each week we’ll seek to put one fruit (or occasionally two) into practice. In this pursuit, we’ll draw on the wisdom of Mussar, a traditional Jewish practice of developing character by focusing on specific positive traits called middot day by day and week by week. The Union staff has created an Omer journal to lead you through the seven weeks with a deeper look at each fruit of the Spirit and how to nurture it in our lives. You can get a free download here: Sefirat Ha’Omer 5782 (umjc.org).

It’s fitting that Paul opens his list of the fruit of the Spirit with love. Love, after all, is the first word of both of the two great commandments identified by our Messiah—V’ahavta. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and might; and love your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:28–31).

In line with Mussar practice we’ll treat each fruit of the spirit as a middah (singular form of middot), a positive character trait that we can actively cultivate. Paradoxically, though, lists of middot don’t usually include “love,” or ahavah in Hebrew. Why would that be so? Perhaps because it’s so easy to think of love in vague, sentimental terms, and the middot are always concrete and observable, traits that you can apply in real-life settings today. As we learn in life, sometimes with great sadness, love is easy to talk about, and even to declare, but not always so easy to act on. One expression of love that we can sense in others and practice ourselves is compassion, which is the middah we’ll focus on this week to reflect love as a fruit of the Spirit. Compassion isn’t just “feeling with” someone else (the literal meaning of “compassion” as well as of “empathy”)—it entails embracing that feeling deeply enough to do something about it.

Each week the Omer journal provides real-life prompts to help us practice the fruit of the Spirit. And so this week, with its focus on love/compassion, we might ask ourselves . . .

• Who do I have difficulty showing compassion to?

• And what can I do to show them compassion this week?

• Who else can I reach out to this week to extend compassion?

Part of the genius of Mussar is transforming bothersome, distracting, or difficult life circumstances into opportunities for character development. If I happen to be working on the middah of patience and I arrive at the busy intersection just as the yellow light switches to red, I don’t have to fret—I’m getting a mini-workout in patience! Or I might imagine myself walking down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho in ancient times. I catch sight of a guy by the side of the road who looks like he needs help and I don’t talk myself out of getting involved, although there might be some good reasons to do so. Instead, I realize this is a crash course in compassion—just what I need!—and I pursue it with a whole heart and a generous purse. The guy gets the help he needs and I get the workout in love/compassion that I need.

Real love has legs, and life provides plenty of opportunities to walk with those legs. Starting this week with the fruit of love, may we respond to the opportunities for good that life presents to us. May the Spirit who bears fruit in our lives lead us in cultivating that fruit in the weeks ahead!

A Season of Fruitfulness

Shabbat HaGadol, Malachi 3:4–24 [3:4–4:6]

Monique B, UMJC Executive Director

This weekend is Shabbat HaGadol, the final Shabbat before Pesach. In the midst of a frenzy of last-minute house cleaning, we gather this week to read the closing words of the prophet Malachi.

Why do we read the closing chapter of Malachi right before Pesach? Because Malachi ends with these words:

Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction.

 It makes sense that right before we gather to remember our redemption from slavery in Egypt, which happened in the past, that we should also look forward to the greater redemption, which lies in the future. We act out this sense of prophetic anticipation during our seders, when we check the front door to see if this might be the year that Elijah has come, to announce the coming of our complete and final redemption.

But today I want to focus on the rest of this week’s reading from Malachi, because as in any good book of prophecy, there’s a fair share of rebuke that comes before the promise of redemption, and the rebuke has just as much to teach us as the promise of what still lies ahead.

Malachi speaks to us from the era of Ezra and Nehemiah, the time of our return from the Babylonian exile. The prophet has taken an inventory of Jewish life in the rebuilt Jerusalem, and has found us wanting.

The Temple is neglected and underfunded, because the people are not bringing a full tithe of their livestock and produce. Jewish families are falling apart, as it has become fashionable for men to divorce their Jewish wives to marry pagan women, instead. The economy is marked by corruption and fraud, as landowners cheat day laborers of their wages. The rot goes all the way to the top, as the priests are approving the sacrifice of animals that are blind, sick, lame, and diseased.

It is despicable to Malachi that a people who were so recently redeemed from the bondage of Babylon, who with zeal rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem and reinstituted the observance of the Torah, have so quickly reverted to the selfishness and zero-sum thinking that marred their lives in exile. This is not a society marked by the fear of the Lord or the rule of law, instead it is every man for himself.

Malachi finds our behavior shameful, but not surprising, as Hashem says, “from the very days of your fathers you have turned away from my laws and have not observed them” (Malachi 3:7).

Let’s think of a few examples:

• In the time of the patriarchs and matriarchs, God delivers Avraham and Sarah from the bondage of infertility and makes of them a great nation. Through a series of political miracles, he guides us to the hills of Judea, a place of prosperity and abundance. But it isn’t long before brother turns against brother, and Judah sells Joseph into slavery. 

• In Moshe’s time, God delivers us from the bondage of slavery through signs and wonders. Through the pillar of smoke and fire, he guides us toward the foot of Mt. Sinai, a place of divine revelation. But it isn’t long before we’re worshiping a golden cow.

• In Joshua’s time, God delivers the Land of Israel into our hands through a series of miraculous battles. But it isn’t long before a Levite chops his mistress into pieces, and the sons of Benjamin kidnap and rape 400 Jewish women, all in the name of “social harmony.”

• In Malachi’s time, God delivers us from the bondage of exile. Through a series of political miracles, he guides us back to the holy mountain of Jerusalem, a place of spiritual and societal renewal. But it isn’t long before we’re offering diseased animals and stepping on each other’s necks to get ahead.

Why is this? Why, in the aftermath of miracles, doesn’t the righteousness stick?

Now, there’s a persistent stream of antisemitism in popular Christian thinking that relishes pointing out the Jewish people’s consistent failure to live up to our own ideals. Our prophets hammer on this point relentlessly, and our Messiah does, too. Many of the gentiles, when they regurgitate these directives and wag their fingers in our direction, like to imagine that if they had faced the same circumstances, they would have done it better than us. It sounds a bit like this: “I wouldn’t have complained about my hunger and thirst in the wilderness! I would have trusted God!”

What our critics forget is that barely three years ago, they were so panicked at the thought of going a mere two weeks without toilet paper that they participated in a run on the stores. If you think you would have maintained perfect faith and emotional tranquility through 40 years of nomadic living in the ancient Middle East, take a moment to remember how graciously you navigated the social, financial, and political stressors of COVID. 

I want to suggest that we fail not because Jewish people are uniquely susceptible to hypocrisy. In fact, I quite admire our culture, which has refined the exercise of self-effacement to the point of a high art form that we call stand-up comedy. No, we fail routinely because we are humans. We are not angels, who follow their divine programming. We are humans, who are given the freedom to fail, to dare, to nourish, and to cut down. So we are fond of forgetting, reverting, of cutting corners and hoping that no one will notice. Our memories are short, and miracles are hard to believe, never mind remember. So our old habits die hard.

But surely our faith in the risen Messiah insulates us from these patterns! No. It doesn’t. The Messiah’s sacrifice covers our transgressions. The Ruach gives us strength to walk the narrow path. Nevertheless, the struggle continues. The full and final redemption has not yet come.

So how are we to manage in the meantime? In his letter to the Galatians, Paul instructs us to pursue the “fruit of the Spirit” within ourselves: “since it is through the Spirit that we have Life, let it also be through the Spirit that we order our lives day by day.” He continues: “What I am saying is this: run your lives by the Spirit. Then you will not do what your old nature wants” (Galatians 5:25, 16 CJB).

And what is the fruit of the Spirit? “Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, humility, self-control. Nothing in the Torah stands against such things” (Galatians 5:22–23 CJB).

Listen to this list again and think about how it’s expressed in your life: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, humility, self-control. I don’t know about you, but some of this fruit is seriously deficient in my life. I find joy especially elusive these last few years, and according to my children, I have absolutely zero patience. What kind of leader could I be if I grew in these areas? What kind of mother? What kind of wife? Is it possible that my congregation would be strengthened if I could grow in these areas? What about yours?

The holiday of Pesach is upon us. When the frenzy of cleaning and cooking finally winds down, we will enter the seven-week season of counting the Omer, as we prepare spiritually for the holiday of Shavuot, commemorating the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai and the outpouring of the Ruach on the early Messianic community in Jerusalem.

I invite you to join the Union community as we count the Omer together and prepare ourselves anew to receive the gift of the Torah, and the strength of the Ruach. Take a moment to download our free Omer journal, which will guide you through seven weeks of focused study on the fruit of the Spirit. Find a study buddy, a close friend or a family member, to meet with once a week to work through the journal together.

You can find the free journal at umjc.org/omer2023.

May these next seven weeks be marked by emotional and spiritual growth in your life as you cultivate the fruit of the Spirit. May the effects of this growth radiate into your relationships, your workplace, and your congregation.

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.