Learning to Trust in God’s Faithfulness

Faithfulness / Parashat Emor: Leviticus 21:1-24:23

Ben Volman, Vice-President, UMJC

I will never forget the first time that I saw Canon Andrew White at our 2017 summer conference in Chicago. His assistant, Esther, had pushed him on stage sitting in his wheelchair wearing a dark blazer with a silk bow-tie. After he was introduced as the famed “Vicar of Baghdad,” I still wasn’t sure what this smiling gentleman with the British accent could say to a room full of Jews in kippas and jeans. But he held us spellbound.

Canon White had navigated between the highest offices in Israel and Yassar Arafat. Because he was a singular man of faith, equally trusted by Palestinians and Israelis, he negotiated peace in the most dangerous situations, including the siege of the Church of the Nativity in 2002. He’d seen the power of Yeshua transform lives as a beacon of hope while under fire in the worst days of the war in Iraq. He had wept over the bodies of families who loved Yeshua and committed himself to being a father for the children who survived. His talk at the conference had no particular theme; no pressing ministry to promote. He was living the message of God’s faithfulness. I wondered if I could be privileged to know this man as a friend.

When I was leading my first congregations, I often struggled to explain what it means to live by faith. People would want to know, “How do I get more faith?” They would read Hebrews 11:1—“faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (NIV)—and feel convicted, but no closer to walking confidently in their convictions. And then I heard a simple phrase that I have since often repeated, especially to new believers: “Faith is trusting in God’s faithfulness.”

All that I know about faithfulness, I learned from following Yeshua. I easily recall my own early experiences, trying to be a “spiritual generator” and trying to muster up the determination to believe when things seemed hopeless. Instead of calmly entrusting myself and the situation into God’s care, I would get tied up in an emotional, or even physical, knot that only left me more anxious and wondering if I really had faith at all. Learning to focus on God’s faithfulness allowed me to step back and see what John Bunyan once described as the Lord’s “great ocean of grace.” Perhaps that is the greatest blessing of seeing God’s faithfulness over time, as James promises, “the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:3–4 NIV). We keep learning to trust in the sustaining reality of his faithfulness day by day and through the seasons of life.

This is a unique aspect of this week’s parasha, Emor. Here in Leviticus 23, God lays out for Moshe the mo’adim, those “designated times” of festivals that God has given us to honor, celebrate, renew, and restore the sacred covenant relationship that binds us together with him.  That word, mo’adim, first appears in Genesis, as God puts lights in the heavens and declares they will be “for signs, seasons [mo’adim], days and years” (1:14 CJB). It’s fitting that the miracle of Creation is celebrated by the very first and foremost of our mo’adim, the Shabbat and its wonderful attributes of rest from labor and focus on God’s covenant faithfulness and blessings. Once again, over the years I have come to understand that my own education in faithfulness has come through marking each one of these holy days. Each festival, as the great modern prophetic teacher Abraham Joshua Heschel explained in his book on the Sabbath, is like “a cathedral in time” and we learn to be faithful as they teach us “to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year.”  

I look back and realize that, as a child, these holy days were my first education in faithfulness, and a comforting reminder about God’s continuing presence in my life, even through the most difficult seasons. When we restore these sanctuaries in time, we are keeping faith with those whose faithfulness gave us this legacy. The candles we light, the traditions we share around the table are a reminder that God has been faithful to those who entrusted their faith and hope to us.  

Those first lessons are the beginning, but when I think of faithfulness, I think of Yeshua. I have been privileged to share the confidences and the struggles of brothers and sisters in ministry over several decades. But we are also blessed to be witnesses to Yeshua’s faithfulness. How many times was Yeshua so wonderfully present to sustain our community? How many times did a word come through the Spirit when our leaders sought his direction? How many times did Yeshua in his grace bless me when my own faith had fallen short? Above all, I can look back on so many gracious answers to prayer that kept us growing in our trust. I believe that this is what Rav Sha’ul means when he writes in Romans 1:17: “For in the gospel the righteousness of God is revealed—a righteousness that is by faith from first to last, just as it is written: ‘The righteous will live by faith’” (NIV).

Years ago, a member of my congregation had been a missionary in North Ontario with a young family. They were struggling financially on a meager salary and at one point had run out of money. His wife told him that they didn’t have enough food to feed the family that evening. He decided to lay out the dishes and confessed that he was not all that happy as he turned toward heaven and said aloud, “Lord, you know, it’s five o’clock and this is when my family eats supper.” His prayer was interrupted by a loud knocking and commotion at the door. It was a neighbor with his hands full. “Look at that!” he said, pointing to a group of friends who were getting into their cars. “I invited them over for roast beef dinner and they all want to go out to the local restaurant. Can you possibly use this meal?” 

As my wife, Sue, and I left the Chicago conference, we considered ourselves fortunate to have gotten to know Canon Andrew’s remarkable assistant at the time, Esther, and grateful for the chance to have connected with Andrew briefly. We got to the airport for our flight back to Toronto only to find that our flight was not only delayed, but might not even leave that day. We were surprised and confused, but decided to head back to the conference hotel where we were most likely to get a room. The next morning, at breakfast, as we were entering the dining room we met Canon Andrew and Esther. We shared a wonderful time together and Andrew told me that he has families that he visits in Toronto, and it was the beginning of a friendship that was also a blessing for his ministry and certainly a great blessing for us. And my lessons in faith and faithfulness continue.   

What Is This Thing Called Love?

Parashat Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Ahavat Zion Messianic Synagogue, Los Angeles

Many people skip over Leviticus, assuming these archaic chapters are irrelevant to our lives. This week’s parasha proves such people to be mistaken. Read coherently, and taken seriously, even two verses in today’s parasha can transform our lives in service to God and mankind.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks opens our understanding:

At first glance, these laws have nothing to do with one another: some are about conscience, some about politics and economics, and others about purity and taboo. Clearly, though, the Torah is telling us otherwise. They do have something in common. They are all about order, limits, boundaries. They are telling us that reality has a certain underlying structure whose integrity must be honored. If you hate or take revenge you destroy relationships. If you commit injustice, you undermine the trust on which society depends. If you fail to respect the integrity of nature (different seeds, species, and so on), you take the first step down a path that ends in environmental disaster. (https://rabbisacks.org/love-not-enough-acharei-mot-kedoshim-5778/)

Two verses in Leviticus/Vayikra 19 turn us around and propel us forward.

Vayikra 19:18 reminds us how the good life includes loving our neighbor as ourselves. In Torah’s historical context, one’s neighbors would be our fellow community members, joined to us by covenant, expressed or implied. This remains true today whether speaking of religious covenants that Jews share in common, or secular covenants like the Constitution of the United States, or contractual arrangements with members of housing cooperatives.

In Luke 10:25–37, a scribe questions Yeshua on the extent of our obligation to love our neighbor as ourselves, asking, “Who is my neighbor?” The scribe may want to limit the term to his own crowd, countrymen, or cronies. Yeshua’s response is the parable of the Good Samaritan, insisting that our neighbor is anyone we treat in a neighborly fashion. Yeshua’s point? The responsibility for treating others with love always falls on our shoulders, and godly people are those who apply the term “neighbor” in a liberal rather than restricted manner. 

A second verse in Leviticus drives this point home.  

Vayikra 19:34 tells us we must not only love our neighbor as ourselves, but also “treat the foreigner staying with you like the native-born among you — you are to love him (the foreigner, the stranger) as yourself . . . I am Adonai your God.”  

If we are paying attention, we may protest that God is being politically intrusive. He is. He is messing with our categories of obligation, just as Yeshua did with the inquiring scribe. The circle of obligation extends beyond our preferences, prejudices, and comfort zone. 

We’ve been talking about loving both neighbor and stranger. But what is this thing called love?

What Torah means by this kind of love is best conveyed by the Hebrew hesed, a concept so rich it defies simple word-for-word translation into any other language. You will see it translated as mercy; other times, as kindness, lovingkindness, goodness, and covenant faithfulness. But even then the dynamic nature of hesed pulls against the confines of the words we choose as equivalents. They are not equivalent because none of these words help us feel the warmth and sense the scope of the Hebrew. 

Rabbi Sacks warms up our cold and narrow definitions:

Hesed is about emotional support, loving-kindness, love as compassion. It is what we mean when we speak of God in Psalm 147 as one who “heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds.” It includes hospitality to the lonely, visiting the sick, comforting the bereaved, raising the spirits of the depressed, helping people through crises in their lives, and making those at the margins feel part of the community. (https://media.rabbisacks.org/20210706224059/Unit-6-Advanced-Level-Student.pdf?_gl=1).

Hesed is always on the move, proactively involved in meeting the needs of others. That’s what Avraham did when he went forth to meet three traveling strangers and feed them lavishly in Genesis 18, just one biblical example of hesed on the move.   

We might define hesed as “familial responsiveness,” that is, responding to others and their needs as if they are members of our family to whom we owe our engagement and concern.

The scholar Catherine Doob Sakenfeld takes us deeper still. Here is a list of hesed’s characteristics, adapted from her work, Responsiveness in Action: Loyalty in Biblical Perspective:

1. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is made manifest in concrete action.

2. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is to another person (or persons) in relationship with the one who takes action; it is not simply a commitment to an idea or a cause.

3. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is offered to a person in need by a person seeking to fill the need. Narrative texts in the Bible tend to focus on dramatic needs, but even the smallest need in the most everyday situation might become an occasion for showing hesed.

4. The need places the potential recipient in a position of dependence on the one in a position to demonstrate hesed.

5. There are no societal legal sanctions for the failure to demonstrate hesed; thus the doer is in a situation of free decision.

6. Hence, hesed is shown in a freely undertaken fulfillment of an existing commitment to another who is now in a situation of need.

Sakenfeld’s first point speaks of making hesed manifest through actions that display hesed.

Such actions are termed “g’milut hasadim,” (lit., “the bestowal of lovingkindness”), the most comprehensive and fundamental of all Jewish social virtues, which encompasses the whole range of the duties of sympathetic consideration toward one’s fellow man. (https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/gemilut-hasadim)

We see a cluster of such g’milut hasadim in a narrative of Kefa’s ministry in the Book of Acts. In rapid succession, Kefa heals a paralyzed man named Aeneas (9:33–34), and then the scene shifts to Yafo, where a woman named Tavita is known for her acts of tzedakah (financial help to the needy) and other good deeds (9:35–36). She takes ill and dies and the women of the community wash her body in preparation for burial (9:37). Two men ask Kefa to come to Yafo, and there the women show him garments Tavita had made for others in the community, most likely poor women she was helping (9:39). Kefa prays for Tavita and raises her up (9:40–42). All of these actions are g’milut hasadim, deeds of familial responsiveness, demonstrating hesed. Scripture highlights the importance of hesed on the move by clustering these examples together.   

For us, as for the scribe who queried Yeshua, perhaps the hardest thing about hesed is welcoming and serving the stranger. The more different from us the stranger is in appearance, station in life, and opinion, the harder it is to touch their needs with our provision and concern.

But can we be true children of the Avraham of Genesis 18 without welcoming and serving the stranger through deeds of hesed?

Priest and author Henri Nouwen, in his book Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life, takes us still deeper.  

Although many, we might even say most, strangers in this world become easily the victim of a fearful hostility, it is . . . obligatory for us [as God’s people] to offer an open and hospitable space where strangers can cast off their strangeness and become our fellow human beings. The movement from hostility to hospitality is hard and full of difficulties. Our society seems to be increasingly full of fearful, defensive, aggressive people anxiously clinging to their property and inclined to look at their surrounding world with suspicion, always expecting an enemy to suddenly appear, intrude and do harm.   

These are the strangers, the foreigners, whom Torah demands we love as we love ourselves, just as we would love the members of our own family.

Hesed is treating others with familial responsiveness, whether close-in cronies or strangers from afar.

What is this thing called love? It is following in the footsteps of Avraham. It is imitating the kind of familial responsiveness we saw Kefa and the community demonstrate in Acts 9. It is treating even strangers like family and proactively seeking to meet their needs.

Hesed-love for others makes demands upon us while reducing the demands upon them.

Of all the fruits of the Spirit, this is the sweetest.

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.