Meeting God on the Battle Line

Parashat Beshalach, Exodus 13:17–17:16; Haftarah, Judges 4:4–5:31

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, PhD, Shuvah Israel, Plainview, NY

There comes a time when God’s people need to battle, when a crisis demands we mobilize to face obstacles and opposition. At such times, while some prefer to remain spectators, and others to be support personnel behind the lines, some will engage in the thick of things, believing themselves called to give their all in a time of transition, opportunity, or threat.

In our readings today, we see God mobilizing his people, providing wisdom for facing the battles before them.  

Our haftarah (Judges 4:4–5:31) teaches us that God is pleased to use improbable people.

Consider D’vorah the Prophetess, a rarity in the Tanakh as a front-line woman leader. She is the visionary—with a divinely charged inner knowledge of what’s coming up and what needs doing. Then there’s Barak, the military man who needs propping up. He is the functionary—who takes care of business and manages the battle. Finally, there’s the foreigner, Ya’el the Kenite, the activist who, in a moment of opportunity, takes matters into her own hands and does what needs doing. All three of these people were improbable and even imperfect, but each in turn was crucial to winning the battle. And such improbable people needed to work together to gain the victory.

Shof’tim/Judges chapter five reflects on this battle, reminding us that even victory can be messy. Only some of the tribes came up to battle while others malingered. But the passage commends the leaders who served and the people who volunteered freely.  

What lessons can we draw? First, in fighting any battle, there must be a division of labor, of gifts and calling. Some will be visionaries, others functionaries, and some activists, troops, or support personnel. All are needed, and none should despise the other.

From our Torah reading, we find one more lesson, not so much about who fights the battle, as when the battle will be fought.

In this week’s parasha God leads Israel the long way around in their journey to the Land of Promise. The stated reason is that they were insufficiently formed and not yet strong enough to withstand the opposition they would encounter from the Philistines arrayed in their path.

Adonai was concerned with their unprepared and fearful condition (Sh’mot/Exodus 13:17–18). But shouldn’t his desire to get his people to Sinai and give them his law have overruled this consideration? Couldn’t he have just subdued the Philistines while his people made the shorter journey?

No, because God’s intention for his people then, as now, was not simply a utilitarian one. It was a relational intention. He was not shaping an army as much as forming the hearts and souls of his people.

Look at it this way: God could have called Moshe to deliver Israel from Egypt 40 years earlier than he did, without that Mosaic interlude tending sheep in Midian.

But while Moshe was tending sheep, God was shaping a shepherd for the flock of Israel.

And later, when Israel arrived at the border of the Land of Promise (at Kadesh Barnea), and ten of twelve spies spooked the people into rebelling against going into the Land, Israel would then spend another 38 years stuck in the wilderness until that entire generation died off, with the exception of Y’hoshua and Kalev (B’midbar/Numbers 14:26–30).

In D'varim/Deuteronomy 1:2 we’re reminded that it was only eleven days’ journey from Kadesh Barnea to the Land of Promise. But God took 38 years to make the trip! What was he doing? The God who was calling his people to do his work in the world was more interested in the workers than the work

To live with God, and to fight his battles, requires us to respect matters of timing. We long for something good, we pray for something holy, we wait and wait and wait . . . but nothing.

Because God’s view differs from our own, he may be preparing us for things we cannot see, and protecting us from battle-dangers we cannot fathom. And all along he is shaping us into an image that at this time is too bright for our eyes to see.

What does this mean for us? It means we must give the right answer to this question he asks of us: Do you trust me?

In many passages of life, in peace or in war, this is the central, transformational question. When we settle that issue, stormy seas grow calm, battles are won, and our impatient grumbling is transmuted into a humbled, “Yes, Lord!”

The Letter to Ya’akov steers us in the right direction, reminding us three times to be patient: “Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient. Establish your hearts” (Ya’akov 5:7–8).

Whether we are visionaries, functionaries, activists, troops, support personnel, or even bystanders, may God give all of us established hearts, as we await the outworking of his perfect purpose and pleasure.

Looking for a Leader

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16
Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

It’s election season, which probably means it’s also a high time for sales of antacids. But behind all of the anxiety, bluster, rhetoric, accusation, and partisan rancor, is an earnest search: It is only natural and good that human beings should seek a trustworthy leader who will act in their best interests and lead them well. Sadly, the search for such political leaders in our day seems to always lead to disappointment for many people, or even for most. This makes the story of the Exodus all the more remarkable. It is not hard to understand why Moses looms so large in Jewish history.

Some 1500 years after Moses’s death, all of the Jewish world was groaning with anticipation and longing for a true leader—the Messiah—a “prophet like Moses” who would lead them to victory and freedom. But in what respect would this prophet be “like” Moses? Parashat Bo may suggest an answer.

At Exodus 11:3, we read, “Adonai gave the people favor in the eyes of the Egyptians. Indeed, the man Moses was very great in the land of Egypt, in the eyes of Pharaoh’s servants and in the eyes of the people.” This passage recalls earlier words from God, and looks forward as well. At the burning bush, God tells Moses, “Then I shall grant these people favor in the eyes of the Egyptians. So it will happen that when you go, you will not leave empty-handed. . . . So you will plunder the Egyptians” (Exod 3:21, 22c). We then see this idea brought to fruition in this week’s parasha: “Adonai gave the people favor in the eyes of the Egyptians and let them have what they asked for. So they plundered the Egyptians” (Exod 12:36).

So, we see here the fulfillment of the first part of the promise in 11:3, which tells us “Adonai gave the people favor in the eyes of the Egyptians.” But what about the second half of the verse? “Indeed, the man Moses was very great in the land of Egypt, in the eyes of Pharaoh’s servants and in the eyes of the people.” Commentators tend to see this sentence as a mere fleshing out of the preceding statement, explaining the means by which the people had favor. But it also introduces an assertion that can be viewed separately from Bnei-Yisrael’s plunder of the Egyptians: Moses was held in high esteem by Pharaoh’s servants and by the Egyptian people. It’s quite a thing to say, when you think about it. Consider the havoc and destruction that Moses and Aaron had brought to Egypt, such that Pharaoh’s servants, under threat of further plagues, had appealed to Pharaoh, saying, “Don’t you realize yet that Egypt is being destroyed?” (Exod 10:7). And yet, despite all this, we read that Moses was great in their eyes.

Just as with the early part of Exodus 11:3, we see this latter part brought to fulfillment as well, this time in the form of the erev rav (mixed multitude). “Then Bnei-Yisrael journeyed from Rameses to Succoth, about 600,000 men on foot, as well as children. Also a mixed multitude went up with them, along with the flocks, herds and heavy livestock” (Exod 12:37–38).

Who made up the erev rav? Scripture doesn’t tell us specifically. Jewish tradition, however, describes them as being from among the people of Egypt. Interpretations abound, but for just one example, a midrash identifies the erev rav as righteous Egyptians who took part in the Passover alongside the Hebrews so that they could join them in their march to freedom (Shemot Rabbah 18). While we do not know for certain who made up this mixed multitude and how they came to follow Moses, what is clear is that, although Moses had been sent specifically to liberate the Hebrews, his influence and leadership transcended his own community, casting a wider influence. When taking stock of Moses’s impact, the hardness of Pharaoh seems all the more notable. Being sent by God, Moses had an influence that needed to be actively and steadfastly resisted in order to be turned away. In Pharaoh’s case, that resistance was divinely reinforced.

Now we return to our initial question: In what sense is Yeshua a prophet like Moses? The Torah identifies Moses’s “face-to-face” relationship with God as a distinguishing factor that sets him apart from other prophets (Num 12:6–8, Deut 34:10). But when it comes to finding the likeness of Moses in Yeshua, we need not stop there. The powerful influence of Moses even among the Egyptians points toward a later Messianic reality. In John 5:46, Yeshua rather pointedly tells some disbelieving authorities, “For if you were believing Moses, you would believe Me—because he wrote about Me. But since you do not believe his writings, how will you believe My words?” Later, he declares to an assembled crowd, “As I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all to Myself” (John 12:32). And, indeed, through his atoning sacrifice, he makes a way for reconciliation with God for all who come to him, people from every nation, and not only those “lost sheep from the house of Israel” (Matt 15:24). Moses, too, drew multitudes, saving all those who were willing to follow him out of Egypt.

We moderns are hardly unique in our difficulties in finding strong and lasting leadership. It is not a new problem. In his day, Moses pointed the way not only for Bnei-Yisrael and the erev rav, but for a people not yet born—indeed, for us! In word and in deed, he foreshadowed the revelation of an eternal King.

 All Scripture quotations are from the TLV.

Finding Intimacy with God Through the Journey

Parashat Va'era, Exodus 6:2-9:35

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

This is what Adonai says: “Let my people go, that they may serve [worship] me.” (Exodus 8:20)

Exodus: Torah's book of worship. What? You might wonder whether I know what I'm saying.

In the beginning, when Adam was created by Adonai, we can see a picture of intimacy and oneness. Adam’s breath came directly from Adonai (Gen 2:7). Adam was designed in God’s own image (Gen 1:26). Adam had an intimate connection with the Creator from the very start.

In the beginning, Adam walked in the garden with God, and they shared an intimacy of fellowship (Gen 3:8). The oneness represented is the heart of what we know as worship. This is why humans were created. To live life in praise to God: “the people I formed for myself, so they may declare my praise” (Isa 43:21).

The picture of walking in oneness included Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and all who followed them, even those who today call upon the name of Messiah.

After man was expelled from the garden, this intimacy changed. Humans were no longer able to stroll side by side with their God as Adam did. The location where man dwelt changed but the design of man did not. Man still had a desire to worship but the recipient was no longer as easily accessible as when Adam dwelt in the garden. Men began to build altars, offer sacrifices, and call out for worship. Sadly not all of the altars built or sacrifices offered were made in Hashem's name.

Our creator wanted those he created to choose freely to walk at his side. We know from Scripture that Adam made a choice that led to turning from his God. He chose to disregard a God-given direction. As time passed, the more disconnected all mankind became from the intimacy of the garden. God created man to have freedom to choose where or to whom they would place their affections. The later chapters in Bereisheet tell of the Patriarchs’ struggle with the challenge and choice of where to place loyalty of service and affection

Many can easily accept the existence of God as Creator. Yet we struggle. With the gift of freedom to choose we face the age-old challenge; what is most important to us, who is most important to us, and with whom do we spend our time? Who or what is the recipient of our worshipful service?

Last week’s portion gives insight. God's people were at the Pharaoh's beck and call. In captivity, their time, energy, and abilities built up Pharaoh, in a sense giving him service, in essence giving Pharaoh worship (Exod 5:17–18). The Hebrew word for this service is avodah, which is the same word for worship.

This is what Adonai says: “Let my people go, that they may serve [worship] me.” (Exod 8:20)

The Lord instructed Moses and Aaron to tell Pharaoh to let the people go on a three-day journey into the desert so they could worship their God. It was God's way of removing the distractions of both the hardship of slavery and the resources that Pharaoh provided. This was giving the people an opportunity to choose to make Adonai a priority in life. This was reestablishing a choice for the people. Today we too must choose.

Like the Israelites, we too have distractions throughout our life journey. Today in our modern society there are many contenders for our affections, our time, our service. What do we value most, where do we turn for strength and comfort to get through the day? Perhaps some of us can relate to being held captive to a job, or to a boss who won’t take second place in our life. Others may experience a loss of what was once theirs at the beginning of their faith journey, a life similar to Adam’s before he disobeyed. Some initially knew the beauty and peace of being close to God and became sidetracked by life events. Initially they experienced a feeling of companionship deep in their being, similar to what Adam might have known in the early days of strolling side-by-side with God in the garden. Now they feel an emptiness accompanied by a longing to recover their initial walk of intimacy. In order to recapture lost intimacy and build a deeper bond, prioritizing quiet time in the presence of the Ruach is a must.

My personal journey began when I was taught there was an entity known as God. I was taught that there was good and bad and I needed to do and be good. The how of this way of life was what I discovered over time. When I was introduced to the Bible as a way to find out more about God, I began to read and ask questions. The more I read, the more questions I had. It took years of living day to day, investing time in school, in my profession, in my family. Living my life to become my best was my motivation. One day exhaustion overwhelmed me. I felt useless, doomed to failure.

Out of this place of doom came my cry. The voice I cried, though unrecognizable, was mine; it was birthed out of utter brokenness. The cry was simple, honest, and desperate. From the core of my being I uttered the words: “God who are you? God where are you when I need you?” Speaking these words was the last time my life was truly all about me.

Immediately my entire being was flooded with a peace I still can’t describe in words. It was this moment I began to build an intimacy with Hashem. The cry was me inviting God into my entire life. The peace I felt was God accepting my desire to live fully for him. In a moment, God became my first love, my best friend, my everything.

The oneness of intimacy in worshipful living is more than acknowledging God’s existence. God’s desire to dwell in intimacy with us has not changed since Adam. The choice is ours. Do we have space in our lives for God to be our everything? It is when we open our life to him that the oneness begins. Simply responding as Moses did in Exodus 3:4, “Hineni, here I am.”

Moses saw a burning bush and he turned from his shepherding duties to face it. As he turned, Adonai spoke: “Moses, Moses.” The response Moses gave to Adonai—“Hineni”—was what began the process of deliverance for the people from out of Pharoah’s oppressive hand. We too need to turn away from our worldly journeys and begin a new journey, walking in a manner that gives glory to Adonai as we reflect the light of his presence to the world.

It is no longer I who live, but Messiah lives in me. And the life I now live in the body, I live by trusting in Ben-Elohim—who loved me and gave Himself up for me.” Galatians 2:20

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

God’s Calling is Greater than Our Fears

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

Matthew Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Hollywood, FL

“Now therefore go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.” But he said, “Oh, my Lord, please send someone else.” Then the anger of the Lord was kindled against Moses . . .” (Exodus 4:12–14a)

This week we read of Moses’ first encounter with God at the burning bush. In this conversation on the mountain, Moses finds himself wrestling with the great battle of the saints: Faith vs fear. And his fear nearly won the day. But for God! But for God! God is faithful and longsuffering.

I want to be clear in setting the tone of this reflection. I am most certainly not judging Moses and I am not suggesting that his response was faint-hearted. Clearly Moses’ life bears a witness of incredible courage, strength of willpower and faith. To that end let’s look at some lessons we may learn from his conversation with God on top of Mt Sinai.

For starters, don’t be so sure that a face-to-face encounter with God will alleviate us of our fears. So often we look for a mountain-top encounter in hopes that it will be the catalyzing moment in our life, bringing clarity of direction, along with that unshakable willpower that is displayed by the heroes of faith. In reality, God’s voice and calling often take a very different form. No burning bushes, no earthquake, no thunder and lightning; perhaps just a still small voice.

If we do not listen to the still small voice, there is little hope that we will listen to God face-to-face.

Secondly, it is important to affirm that Moses’ fears were very real; and yours are too. Clearly some fears are more material than others. However, oftentimes it’s the immaterial fears that hamstring our faith in ways that material fears cannot.  According to the National Social Anxiety Center (nationalsocialanxietycenter.com/social-anxiety/public-speaking-anxiety/), “the fear of public speaking is the most common phobia ahead of death.” It seems many of us share in Moses’ fears.

So how do we overcome our fears? The answer rests in the hands of the Almighty God, who has promised us a spirit of power, love, and a sound mind (2 Tim 1:7). God reassures Moses that his omnipotence and omnipresence are greater than Moses’ fears. This should reassure us too.

Finally, God stands behind his calling. Although Moses’ fears were real (as yours are too), God’s presence goes with him, and will bring him through the shadow of fear up to the mountaintop of victory. Later we see Moses reiterating his fears to God, in a very transparent way:

Then Moses turned to the Lord and said, “O Lord, why have you done evil to this people? Why did you ever send me? “For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in your name, he has done evil to this people, and you have not delivered your people at all.

But the Lord said to Moses, “Now you shall see what I will do to Pharaoh.” (Exod 5:22–6:1)

Moses does not hide his fears and frustrations from the Lord, quite the opposite, he verbalizes them; and the Lord responds to Moses, if I may use the modern vernacular, “Relax Moses, I’ve got this.”

God’s calling is greater than our fears.

A singularly important question arises in this discussion, and it is this: how do I discern God’s calling for my life?

This is the question of the ages for all of those seeking to do God’s will.

I like to categorize God’s calling into two distinctive categories.

1.     God’s Passive Calling.

2.     God’s Assertive Calling.

 God’s passive calling is much easier to define than God’s assertive calling. Using myself as an example; I was born a male. Therefore, God has called me to be a son, a brother, a husband, a father, and by his good grace, a grandfather and great grandfather. This calling is not less important than God’s assertive calling.

God’s assertive calling, in contrast, comes to us in a variety of ways. To Moses, it was a burning bush; to Jacob it was a dream; to Elisha, it was a passing of a mantle; to Manoah and his wife it was an angel; to Paul the apostle it was an epiphany; to king David, it was the anointing of oil; to Samuel, it was the audible voice of God; to Elijah, it was a still small voice. To many of our forefathers, the calling was simply presented as an opportunity. To Joseph and Daniel it was the opportunity to be faithful, the opportunity to respond to the challenges of life in a godly way, the opportunity to serve.

What is God’s assertive calling for your life? That is for God to know and you to find out through prayer, attentiveness, and faithfulness.  

One thing is for sure, and that is that God has called each and every one of us, and that his calling is greater than our fears.

Whatever your calling may be, as a son or a daughter, a mother or a father, a husband or a wife, a leader or a follower, I would encourage you with the words spoken to our forefather Joshua:

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Josh 1:9)

Hazak, my friends, Hazak! Now therefore go, and live out God’s calling in your life.

 All Scripture references are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

Finding Life in Egypt

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

David Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

Our parasha begins, Vayechi Yaakov be’eretz Mitzraim, “Jacob lived (vayechi) in the land of Egypt.” The language of this opening line is somewhat unexpected. Why say that Jacob lived in the land of Egypt? In English translation it’s perhaps unremarkable, but there are other verbs that might have worked in Hebrew. Perhaps “dwelt” (vayeshev), as Isaac did in Canaan (Gen 37:1), or sojourned (vayagor), as Abraham in Gerar (20:1). It might well be translated “and Jacob really lived in the land of Egypt.”

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger (known as the Sfat Emet, 1847-1905) notices this as well:

Scripture could have just said, “Jacob was in the land of Egypt.” It wanted to teach that he was truly alive, even in Egypt. “Life” here means being attached to the root and source from which the life-force ever flows.

The Sfat Emet is getting at an irony here. The reader expects Jacob to “sojourn” instead of “truly live” in Egypt because, as when Abraham moved to Gerar, moving to Egypt looks on its face like a detour, a distraction in the arc of Jacob’s life. He is supposed to build up a great nation in the land promised to him and to Isaac and Abraham before him. Relocating the entire mishpacha to Egypt—right when they are poised to take the next step in growing into a nation—seems like a step in the wrong direction.

Indeed, we have evidence that Jacob himself feels this way. When his sons report the happy conclusion of their trials and the news of Joseph, Jacob’s heart “goes numb,” and only the strong evidence that his beloved son lives strengthens him to make the leap (Gen 45:26–28). Even after he sets out, God must give him further encouragement:

God called to Israel in a vision by night: “Jacob! Jacob!” He answered, “Here.” “I am God, the God of your father’s [house]. Fear not to go down to Egypt, for I will make you there into a great nation. I Myself will go down with you to Egypt, and I Myself will also bring you back; and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes.” (Gen 46:2-4 JPS)

If we can read into the words of God’s encouragement here, Jacob is afraid that he is “shorting” the promise to become a great nation—selling the savings bonds before they mature, if you will. And what would keep his family of 70 people from assimilating into the greatest empire of the time? On paper, he would be giving up on the promise. To that end, God reassures him that this is in fact part of the story.

Yet this still doesn’t explain why Jacob is, in a sense, doubly connected to the “source of all things” while in Egypt. To understand this use of vayechi—related to chai, live—we must look at several earlier uses of that word in this narrative.

When Joseph can no longer hold back from reuniting with his brothers, he asks an unexpected question: “Does my father still live (Ha’od avi chai)?” (45:3). This is so confusing that the JPS translates it “is my father still well”? It’s unexpected because he already knows that his father is alive . . . it’s precisely so he won’t die that Judah pleads to bring Benjamin home!

The next cluster of occurrences of this word is when Jacob learns the news from his sons:

And they told him, “Joseph is still alive (od Yosef chai); yes, he is ruler over the whole land of Egypt.” His heart went numb, for he did not believe them. But when they recounted all that Joseph had said to them, and when he saw the wagons that Joseph had sent to transport him, the spirit of their father Jacob revived (vatechi ruach Ya’akov; literally, “the heart of Jacob became alive”). “Enough!” said Israel. “My son Joseph is still alive (od Yosef beni chai)! I must go and see him before I die.” (Gen 45:26-28 JPS).

Using these words in this way, the Torah is telling us more than the banal fact about Jacob staying alive and not dying for a certain number of years. Rather, he was revived; there was a quality about his life in Egypt that even surpassed the life he had in Canaan without Joseph.

I don’t think the text is saying that during his twilight years in Egypt Jacob “lived life to the fullest,” as in, he went to lots of parties, or that he took up woodworking, or started learning the saxophone. My guess is that with this choice of words, it tells us that Jacob was able to rekindle his faith that his life had meaning beyond what he could comprehend; God’s promises were not going to fizzle out when bad things happened.

This struggle is not foreign to us today. We may not literally be in Egypt, but we live in a world where redemption is incomplete, its processes hidden from us. Where are the nations beating weapons of war into implements of agriculture? How will our judges and counselors be restored as in days of old? Having left Egypt literally, we remain there figuratively: in exile—not just us but all the nations of the earth.

The metaphorical resurrection of Joseph restored Jacob’s ability to see God’s hand in both what he could see and what he couldn’t. In the same way, the resurrection of Yeshua enlivened the eyes of a handful of Jews in first century Judea. Having escaped Egypt only to live under the thumb of the Greek, then Roman empires, our ancestors perhaps could no longer perceive the arc of their story. They certainly would have been discouraged to learn that Jewish sovereignty would be another two millennia in coming.

Just as Jacob must reconcile the story he imagined with the way God was actually intending it to play out, so the first followers of Yeshua needed to adjust their expectations of what national redemption looked like.

Jacob’s heart is revived by his sons’ report that Joseph still lives, and rules over Egypt, but not right away. His heart first fails him and goes numb. According to the Ramban (Nachmanides, 1194-1270 CE) he is speechless and remains still for hours, and his sons have to yell Joseph’s words into his ears for the entire day, until the wagons arrive. And then, after hearing the words over and over again, and upon seeing all the bounteous goods from Joseph, his heart revives.

For those of us whose hearts are still numb, may we see Yeshua’s goodness to us in such quantity that it arrives by the wagonfull. And for those of us who have already seen it, may we truly live, connected to the source of all things, even as we live in Egypt, where the story’s arc is hidden from us. And may God, who brought us here, bring us back soon.

The Courage to Rise

Parashat Vayigash: Genesis 44:18–47:27 

Ben Volman, UMJC Canadian Regional Director 

It is a moment when all seems lost. The sons of Israel were convinced that they had finally been reconciled with the intimidating vizier of Egypt. But their caravan had barely left the city gates, burdened down with crucial provisions, when they were overtaken by the vizier’s steward. He accused them of something impossible, stealing his master’s silver goblet. Despite their protests of innocence, after a careful search, the goblet was pulled out of Benjamin’s sack. In utter despair, they had turned back to face the most powerful man under Pharaoh. Now, this inscrutable Egyptian, who somehow had suspected the bloodguilt that stained their consciences, would have nothing to restrain his rage. There is even a painful note of confession from Judah as they are all prostrate before him: “God has revealed your servants’ guilt” (Gen 44:16).

And then—vayigash —Judah “approached” (CJB) or as others translate it, “went up” (NIV) to speak. Rabbinical tradition insists that we thoroughly study all that transpires from this heart-rending, humble intercession. He does not plead for himself, not even for the youth, but for the elderly father whose life is bound up with the fate of his youngest brother. Judah does not deny the vizier’s full right to exercise justice, but only begs to take his brother’s place. 

The rabbis (Gen Rabbah 93:6) want us to consider all the scriptural nuances of the word vayigash that can be seen here: it is used before a charge into battle (2 Sam 10:13), a bold act of conciliation (Josh 14:6), and a prophet’s earnest call to prayer (1 Kings 18:36). We read the same word describing Avraham’s audacity as he bravely intercedes for the righteous who may yet be in Sodom (Gen 18:23). Judah’s courage in stepping forward is fully resonant with each of these situations.

All through the previous sidra, Mikketz, Joseph tested his brothers and each challenge, right up to this last one, revealed the hidden guilt for which they have no excuse. After all, what was the young Joseph’s offense when they sold him into slavery—being a dreamer? But each test had been equally difficult for Joseph who could not show them his tears. Now, Judah’s intercession is also a test for Joseph, who hears his brother’s mature note of compassion, regret, and even brokenness of spirit. “I couldn’t bear to see my father so overwhelmed with anguish” (Gen 44:34). How many of us, like Joseph, can look back with regret at our youthful arrogance and recall how we once imagined that the world should revolve around our dreams and shallow conceit? Until this moment, the man who had been sold into slavery and unjustly imprisoned for years had been holding them to account, but the one who has the right to judge may also choose to forgive.

To Judah’s brothers, anxiously waiting for a verdict, the sudden cry from the vizier for his attendants to leave the room is terrifying. For Joseph, weeping as he finally breaks all pretense of being a stranger, the time has come for healing. At first, when his brothers heard him speak, saying “Ani Yoseph”—“I am Joseph”—they recoiled in fear even before they could fully comprehend what was happening. But then, like a beloved brother, Joseph bids them to draw closer. There is no blame or reproach for the past. Everything has happened according to God’s purpose: “it was God who sent me ahead of you to preserve life” (Gen 45:5).

This is a man who is truly reconciled to the will of God. His message is an empowering word of life, first for his brothers, but also his father. When they arrive home and share the news, Israel can hardly believe it. We read that only “when he saw the wagons which Yosef had sent... the spirit of Ya’akov their father began to revive. Israel said, ‘Enough! My son Yosef is still alive! I must go and see him before I die” (Gen 45:27, 28). In a final plot twist to the story of Jacob who had spent decades in exile from the land of promise, he goes down to Egypt with God’s blessing. The God of his father tells him, “It is there that I will make you into a great nation. Not only will I go down with you to Egypt; but I will also bring you back here again, after Yosef has closed your eyes” (Gen 46:3–4).

A year ago, I was also writing on Vayigash for this commentary series, and I felt compelled to speak about faith that inspires hope in the shadow of difficult times. This year, it feels even harder to understand what is happening in the midst of our trials. But as I look at this story, I can’t help being inspired by Judah’s courage, stepping forward for the sake of his brothers. As we look around at a world enflamed with antisemitism, we require that courage, trusting that God will not fail to uphold his promises to Israel. And we need to be strengthened in the Spirit by Yeshua, who first engaged us, and rose to bring life when it seemed that all was lost.  

At times like this, it’s tempting to retreat and withdraw. It takes courage of heart to keep praying, to stay engaged with God, and to remember that the gates of prayer never close. Even in the darkest times, there are miracles to remind us how God is still reshaping history. In 1933, just a few months after the Nazis came to power in Germany, the young Abraham Joshua Heschel had submitted his brilliant dissertation on the prophets at the University of Berlin and passed the oral exams, but couldn’t receive a doctorate until the work was published. Unable to pay the cost, he needed to find a publisher. The book, Die Prophetie, was finally sponsored in 1935 by the Polish Academy of Sciences and somehow received official permission for a book by a Jewish author to be received into Nazi German bookstores. Without the degree Heschel would never have escaped Europe, and despite endless complications, he left Warsaw for England just weeks before the Germans invaded Poland. Heschel re-wrote his dissertation in English and it was published in 1962 as The Prophets. It remains an influential volume, but not only among Bible scholars.

Some months ago, in a documentary featuring the late, revered Congressman John Lewis, who had survived the dogs and billysticks of the Alabama State Police in Selma on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, he spoke about the inspiration that he and his friends found in Heschel’s book, underlining passages on every page. He was one of the hundreds who marched behind Martin Luther King and beside him, Abraham Joshua Heschel, across the bridge from Selma on their way to the Alabama state capital. Heschel famously wrote later, “Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt like our legs were praying.” Vayigash, indeed. May we, also, be so fully engaged with God’s purposes for us during these challenging times.

 All Scripture citations, unless otherwise noted, are from the Complete Jewish Bible.

A Life in Technicolor

Photo: https://broadway.com

Parashat Miketz, Genesis 41:1-44:17

Suzy Linett, Devar Shalom, Ontario, California

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to see a live production of the classic musical Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat, with roots and themes from the story of Joseph, eleventh son of Jacob. The musical numbers were well done and quite lively. The flashy colors, dance moves, and dramatics put a different flair on the narrative than one might receive by reading the text alone.

Joseph was a dreamer and interpreter of amazing dreams, full of meaning. He was in an Egyptian prison after a convoluted sequence of events triggered by a gift–the Technicolor Dream Coat (Gen 37:3)—the resulting jealousy of his brothers, and his own dreams of his brothers bowing to him. Miketz, meaning “at the end of,” picks up at the end of two years during which Joseph was forgotten in prison. Now Pharaoh had disturbing dreams. Finally, Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams was remembered, and Joseph was brought to appear before Pharaoh. According to Genesis 37:2, Joseph was about 17 when he was sold into slavery, and was about 30 when he was called up to Pharaoh.  After being summoned, “He shaved, changed his clothes, and came to Pharaoh” (Gen 41:14b).

Release from prison and entry into Pharaoh’s court must have been like switching from old black-and-white broadcasting to vibrant Technicolor indeed!

This time, instead of simply providing an interpretation, as he had done for two fellow prisoners, “Joseph answered Pharaoh saying, ‘It’s not within me. God will answer with shalom for Pharaoh’” (Gen 41:16). After Joseph interpreted the dreams correctly, he was appointed to oversee the project of building storehouses and saving for the lean years to come. Within a moment, Joseph was released from prison, given an Egyptian name which meant “decipherer of secrets,” and given an Egyptian priest’s daughter as a wife. Joseph built the storehouses, and ran a food distribution program during the famine. Cue the music – Joseph was in charge of the land and his world was turned into technicolor. Joseph had matured. No longer the prideful young son showing off his gifts, he had developed a servant’s heart for the people. As his dream foretold, the Egyptians, who worshiped the sun, moon, and stars, bowed down to him.

Meanwhile, believing Joseph was dead, Jacob sent ten of his remaining eleven sons to Egypt to buy food. He kept Benjamin, Joseph’s full brother, at home. The brothers came to Joseph and “bowed down before him,” in fulfillment of Joseph’s other dream years earlier, which had set off the chain of events leading to his current position. Joseph recognized them, but they did not know he was their long-lost brother. Joseph accused them of spying, imprisoned them for three days, and then released nine of the brothers, keeping Simeon as a hostage, and instructing them to return with Benjamin. The brothers realized that this disaster was due to their treatment of Joseph all those years ago, and repented. They did not know Joseph understood them. He heard their cries of teshuvah. Joseph had his stewards return the brothers’ money by placing it in the sacks of grain. The narrative continues and eventually Joseph is reunited with his brother Benjamin, but again does not reveal himself. The parasha ends with Joseph demanding that the brothers leave Benjamin behind, and letting the others go home.

As we review this story, several things come to mind.

Joseph never sent word to his father that he was alive during the years he was in bondage. As I wondered about that, I realized if Jacob had known, the events leading to Joseph saving his family from famine would not have occurred. Joseph knew the truth of his own dreams, and understood the events must come to pass.  He had two dreams about his future that are recorded in Genesis. The first was that his brothers would bow to him, and the second that the sun, moon, and stars would do the same. Egyptians worshiped the sun, moon, and stars. As Joseph saved that nation, its inhabitants bowed to him.

It is interesting to me that this parasha always comes during this time of year. The days are shortened, darkness is increased. Yet we have the light of Hanukkah, and the days will get longer again. Joseph was in dark places, the pit and the jail, yet the light of the dreams and word of God promoted him into full technicolor.

I am struck by the revelation of the Technicolor prophecies both fulfilled and promised.

In 1 Corinthians 13:12, Paul wrote, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.” A life in Messiah is a life in Technicolor, and we will see clearly in the world to come. We are to wrap ourselves in the “garment of praise” (Isa 61:3). In Ephesians 6, Paul exhorts us to put on the “armor of God.” Our spiritual lives can be vibrant Technicolor despite the dreary black-and-white around us. We, like Joseph, can put on our own “Amazing Technicolor Dream Coats!”

With the love of our Heavenly Father, we can forgive. When the brothers repented—made teshuvah—they were saved from death and reunited. They, like Joseph, moved from black and white lives into full Technicolor of what the Lord had for them. The Lord offers us a Technicolor life in him also. When we repent and make teshuvah, we are saved from eternal death and darkness to be reunited as the Body of Messiah. Olam ha-zeh—this present world—can be gray and dreary. When we put on the coat, we enter into the Technicolor world here on earth and in Olam ha-ba, the world to come. “I will rejoice greatly in Adonai. My soul will be joyful in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation” (Isa 61:10a). Live a Technicolor life!

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

Servants of the Holy, Servants of the Light

Parashat Vayeshev, Genesis 37:1–40:23, and Hanukkah 5784

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

Sometimes it would seem that the focus within American Judaism is on impressive edifices, building funds, synagogue attendance, and business protocols – and why not? These values merely mirror those of our everyday lives. Sadly, Judaism appears to have forgotten the purpose of Jewish identity. We were not called to be Jews in order to spread borscht belt humor or, believe it or not, to give the world the perfect bagel. Neither were we called to obsessively observe minutia for its own sake, pridefully demonstrating our superior piety. We were called, and are still enjoined, to be a “Kingdom of priests, a holy nation.” Our mission in the world is to embody a communal life that will concretize God’s highest values: holiness, learning, sensitivity, and justice. We are called to be a living testimony of the faithfulness of the Creator, who maintains his creation in love. We are summoned to be “Avda de-Kud’sha: Servants of the Holy One.”

But how can we as Jews serve God if our leaders and teachers are so uncomfortable speaking of God? Several years ago, I was a member of a clergy association in the town where Shuvah Yisrael met. Each month we met at a different church or synagogue. One month we met at one of the member synagogues. We were all given a tour of the rather impressive facility. The rabbi then told us of an upcoming trip that they would be making to “Jewish New York.” The synagogue had contracted three large coaches to make the trip. When asked if they would be able to fill the buses, the rabbi replied, “My people will go anywhere I tell them to, except the sanctuary.” He then bemoaned the fact that most members rarely attended worship on a regular basis. I was not surprised, though; this rabbi had always seemed uncomfortable with routine mention of God and public prayer. In fact, he seemed far more comfortable speaking about the latest politico than he did about the spiritual issues at the core of our communal existence.

So, if the world we occupy is not suitable for God, why do we earth dwellers need him? Since the rabbi had relegated God to the sanctuary on Saturday, why then would he expect his congregants to risk the same incarceration?

The patriarch Joseph provides a much better role model of the committed Jew. After he is sold into slavery to the house of Potiphar the Egyptian, we are told, “the Lord was with Joseph” (Gen 39:21). This statement is somewhat perplexing in that it seems so obvious. As the protagonist of his own biblical story, one would only assume this to be true. So, what else might the narrator be trying to tell us?

According to Rabbi Huna in Midrash B’reisheet Rabbah, Joseph “whispered God’s name whenever he came in and whenever he went out.” The idea is not only that God took an interest in Joseph, but more so that Joseph continuously cultivated a consciousness of God’s presence. By regularly invoking God’s love, Joseph trained himself to perceive the miraculous among the ordinary, to experience wonder in the midst of the mundane.  By whispering God’s name, he allowed his own deeds to speak more loudly than words testifying of God’s ever-present love.

Rashi interprets “the Lord was with Joseph” differently. According to the great medieval commentator, “the name of God was often in his mouth.” So, Rashi believed that Joseph spoke about God, not only to God. Joseph’s willingness to speak openly of his relationship with God, his love for God, and his eagerness to serve God encouraged others to consider their own relationship with God. By speaking openly of God’s love for humanity and his own reciprocal devotion, Joseph challenged the conventions of those around him, provoking them to rethink their own assumptions about morality and the order of the universe.

Both interpretations, one of quiet piety, the other of a willingness to speak of God openly and frequently, have a place in Judaism and in our faith life. Sometimes we best testify to God’s loving care by simply embodying that love in the acts of caring for the homeless and visiting the sick and elderly. In such instances our hands are the hands of God and can speak much more eloquently than our mouths.

But there is also a time to speak about God and to speak up for God. Of course, we speak about God at our Torah studies and services. But do we take the time to thank God before and after meals, upon rising, and before going to bed? Would our children be surprised to find us praying with regularity? Do most of our articulated dreams and values begin and end with God’s clearest values?

Also, are there times when it is not enough to merely care for the homeless and the needy, but to speak out for them as well, to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves? Joseph was willing to speak up for fellow prisoners, though he was falsely accused himself. Like Joseph, can we take a stand for those who have been forgotten by society and even vilified by those in power? Yeshua, who embodied the purest presence of the Holy One, lived his life and sacrificed his life for all, especially the meekest, the humblest, and the neediest among us. He was truly a Messiah cast into the model of Joseph, the suffering servant. He also encouraged us to live lives dedicated to Hashem, taking up our crosses daily!

Can it be said of us, “the Lord was with (state your name)?” Our Messianic Judaism can be one that concretizes and enlivens our ancestral love for our Creator, Provider, and Protector, and honors the presence of Yeshua our Redeemer.

As we commemorate Hanukkah this year, let’s allow it to be more than a materialistic celebration of society’s verities. Let’s resist the temptation to overemphasize Jewish military might! Rather might we focus on the shamash candle, the servant light that brings light to the rest of the menorah and sheds that light to the entire house. Let’s focus on Yeshua the quintessential servant, who through his sacrificial life brings light to the entire world.

Then perhaps we can pronounce with conviction, “Ana avda de-Kud’sha b’rikh hu: We are the servants of the Holy Blessing One.”

You Know, You Are Also Right

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4-36:43

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Probably about once a month, I will think about this famous scene in “Fiddler on the Roof.” Tevye is observing a conversation between two men, arguing about whether we need to read the newspaper and be aware of outside events or not. He agrees with each one in turn by saying “You’re right.” Then, another man says, “Wait a minute, he is right and he is right? How can they both be right?” To which Tevye responds, “You know, you are also right.”

What I love about this is that it’s brilliant diplomacy and wisdom all at once. Some tensions in our theology and our lives are never fully resolved. These tensions are apparently opposing truths which are both correct. If you are married, you may have experienced this phenomenon. Now, I’m sure you are convinced in your mind that your way of doing the dishes is the correct way, but there may be something to the other person’s perspective that’s worth hearing out. The key to resolving this kind of impasse is to draw out the other person’s narrative, so that they feel seen, understood, and valued. The goal is not necessarily to be right. However, the only way that you could both be right is if you both are understood and valued. Easier said than done, but it is possible.

Pastor Peter Steinke (a disciple of Rabbi Edwin Friedman) describes the tension within a need we have in all our relationships: to be connected and to be an individual. In other words, we long to have loving affirmation and encouragement with one another and at the same time to be able to define ourselves rooted in the affirmation and encouragement of God. We seek neither to placate the other person for fear of rejection, nor to isolate from the other person for fear of conflict. We make decisions both out of compassion on the one hand, and out of a sense of values based on Scripture on the other. If we can learn to balance these two over time, we can mitigate conflict and partner with God for the repairing of the earth (Tikkun Olam). “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Yeshua the Messiah in Matthew 5:9). I’m waiting for the day that I will meet my Maker and he will say, “You know, David, as a peacemaker, you were also right.” Dream big, eh?

And this brings us to this week’s parasha, featuring our dubious hero (or maybe anti-hero), Jacob. Having finagled both the birthright of the firstborn son and the blessing meant for Esau, Jacob is now scrambling and lowering himself to prepare to see his brother after twenty years. He sends gifts, he refers to Esau as “my lord” and himself as “your servant,” and he divides his camp so that if Esau destroys half of his family out of revenge, at least he has something left.

We know Jacob. We know he uses deception and manipulation, but we know he values the blessings of God. We know he is a heel grabber, but that doesn’t just make him an annoying noodge--he is also tenacious and resilient. Jacob acknowledges in this parasha that he is blessed beyond what he deserves, and aren’t we all? Are we really any better than our conflicted ancestor, the namesake of Israel? Listen to his prayer in preparation to meet his brother:

“O God of my father Abraham, and God of my father Isaac, Adonai, who said to me, ‘Return to your land and to your relatives and I will do good with you.’ I am unworthy of all the proofs of mercy and of all the dependability that You have shown to your servant. For with only my staff I crossed over this Jordan, and now I’ve become two camps. Deliver me, please, from my brother’s hand, from Esau’s hand, for I’m afraid of him that he’ll come and strike me—the mothers with the children. You Yourself said, ‘I will most certainly do good with you, and will make your seed like the sand of the sea that cannot be counted because of its abundance.’” (Gen 32:10-13, TLV)

It’s God’s faithfulness vs. Jacob’s character flaws. Who wins that wrestling match? So we ask, “Is Jacob actually repentant?” Perhaps only partially, but he is both humbled and bold. “Lord, you said you would do good to me and to my descendants, and even though I’m afraid of my brother, I trust you.”

Jacob’s story isn’t really just about Jacob. It’s about God. Many rabbis have tried to massage this story to make Jacob more acceptable and Esau more unacceptable. But we don’t need to apologize for Jacob. We are also acceptable only because of God’s sovereign love, and not because we are always shining examples “worthy” of that love. But God does accept Jacob, and he does accept us. God is known in the Scriptures as the God of Israel, and even sometimes as the God of Jacob. The Lord stakes his name, his reputation, his shem, on Jacob and his imperfect descendants, because God cannot be unfaithful to himself.

The Lord of armies is with us;

The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah. (Psalm 46:7 NASB)

Jacob wrestles with God, with his brother, and ultimately with himself. He “wins” the fight, but comes out limping. Formerly the blessing-grabber, he is now the longsuffering, blessing-holder--from Ya’akov to Yisrael. And us? We wrestle with Jacob in all his glorious flaws--we scratch our heads at him and say like that great Jewish sage, Jerry Seinfeld: “Really?!” But Jacob is us. The text is a mirror, and we are full of contradictions, truths apparently opposed to one another inside us like a kaleidoscope. But we’re still here. We’re still loved by God, and we’re holding on to the blessings, and more so clinging to the Blessing-Giver.

Keep going, keep loving, keep wrestling it out. The truth is, we’re all in process, and the process is messy and takes time. Give yourself grace. Progress, not perfection, as a friend reminded me recently. After all, God loved and was faithful to a rough-around-the-edges guy like Jacob to bring to bear his covenant promise, and to do good to him and his descendants, the Jewish people.

The conflicts between Jacob and Esau (Israel and Edom), Jacob and God, and Jacob and himself are a sample of all conflicts we experience. Messiah Yeshua reconciles us back to God, back to each other, and back together within ourselves.

For it pleased God to have his full being live in his Son and through his Son to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace through him, through having his Son shed his blood by being executed on a stake (Col. 1:19-20, CJB).

The gospel brings peace amongst the opposing forces within us and among us. So, the way to be right isn’t always to be correct. We are also right because we are made right, made cleansed, having received a right-ness as a gift through Messiah Yeshua. In that sense, you know, you are also right!

The Twelve Tribes and Beyond

Parashat Vayetse, Genesis 28:10–32:3

Rabbi Russ Resnik

In the Jewish community, we sometimes identify ourselves as MOTs, Members of the Tribe. It’s a bit whimsical, but it’s also a bit problematic in our current social-political climate, where “tribalism” is not a happy term. Our Torah reading last week introduced Jacob, the father of the Twelve Tribes of which all Jews are members. The tribal history continues in this week’s parasha and contains the classic elements of being chosen, having a special legacy, and being different from (and perhaps superior to) the Other. But in typical fashion, the Torah’s account of tribal origins points beyond the usual motifs to hint at hope and transformation to come.  

We saw last week how our forefather Jacob was caught up from before birth in a struggle with his brother Esau, a struggle that sounds pretty tribal from the outset. Their parents, Isaac and Rebekah, struggle with barrenness through the first twenty years of their marriage. Finally, Isaac prays for Rebekah and she becomes pregnant . . . with twins!

But the children struggled with one another inside her, and she said, “If it’s like this, why is this happening to me?” So she went to inquire of Adonai. Adonai said to her:

“Two nations are in your womb,
    and two peoples from your body
    will be separated.
One people will be stronger
    than the other people,
    but the older will serve the younger.” (Gen 25:22–23)

The younger is Jacob, of course, and his early years are marked by strife and competition with Esau, from whom Jacob gains both his birthright and his blessing (belonging to Esau as the first born, since he emerged from the womb just ahead of Jacob). The struggle with Esau becomes so intense that Jacob has to flee the land of promise in fear of his life, and this week’s parasha opens as Jacob begins his journey into exile. He spends the night in “a certain place,” where he dreams of a ladder or ramp joining heaven and earth, with the Lord appearing and saying to him,            

I am Adonai, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac. The land on which you lie, I will give it to you and to your seed. Your seed will be as the dust of the land, and you will burst forth to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south. And in you all the families of the earth will be blessed—and in your seed. (Gen 28:13–14)

 Jacob is the founder of a tribe, but it’s a tribal story that points beyond itself, because Jacob’s seed, in line with the prophetic words given earlier to grandfather Abraham (Gen 12:3), will be the source of blessing for all the families of the earth. This Torah narrative is tribal, but universal as well, pointing to a future of blessing for all the earth’s inhabitants.

But there’s a more immediate and less noticeable thread in the tapestry of Jacob’s tribal story that also hints at a reality beyond tribalism—the humanity of Esau, the son not chosen. When Esau discovers in last week’s parasha that Jacob has received his father’s blessing instead of him, he begs Isaac, “‘Haven’t you saved a blessing for me? . . . Do you just have one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!’ And Esau lifted up his voice and wept” (Gen 27:36, 38). Esau is impulsive and unstable. He loses his birthright because he despises it (Gen 25:34). After Jacob diverts his blessing to himself, Esau vows to kill him, thus triggering Jacob’s twenty-year exile, which begins in this week’s parasha (Gen 27:41–45). But for all that, the Torah portrays his sorrow over losing the blessing with compassion. Esau is not the tribal Other, but a fully-formed human character, flawed but evoking our generosity.

Throughout Jacob’s trying twenty-year exile from the land of promise, Esau isn’t mentioned at all. Again, our founding narrative refrains from the sort of belligerence and chest-thumping we might expect in a tribal tale. Esau reappears only as the exile is about to end, coming to meet Jacob with what looks like a war party of 400 men. But when the two finally meet, the Torah again portrays Esau with generosity and deep emotional connection.

When Esau saw Jacob coming toward him, he “ran to meet him, hugged him, fell on his neck and kissed him—and they wept” (Gen 33:4). Then he tried to refuse Jacob’s gifts of tribute, saying, “I have plenty! O my brother, do keep all that belongs to you” (Gen 33:9), and offered to escort Jacob and his whole household back into the land of promise.

Jacob declines to go with Esau, which some of our sages commend as a wise move, because of Esau’s emotional instability. It may seem better to part company while the feelings are good and Jacob is safe. But finally the two do reunite, at the death of Isaac, to mourn their father together. “Then Isaac breathed his last and died, and was gathered to his peoples, old and full of days. So his sons Esau and Jacob buried him” (Gen 35:29). Tellingly, in this final scene, Esau is named first, before Jacob. This reunion, however brief, reminds us of the equally significant reunion of Isaac and Ishmael at the death of Abraham (Gen 25:8–9).

The Torah insists on weaving the bright thread of our shared humanity into the complex tapestry of Jacob’s tribal origins.

Last week, I had the privilege of joining over 200,000 Members of the Tribe and supporters in the March for Israel, calling for release of the Hamas hostages and opposing the current surge in antisemitism. As I was swept along with the crowd toward the U.S. Capitol, I thought of the psalmists’ words about joining the multitudes, the tribes going up to worship Hashem (Psa 42:5; 122:4). We were there to protest and advocate, not worship in the usual sense, but the feeling of tribal assembly was overwhelming. One of the speakers, historian Deborah Lipstadt, provided a healthy balance, amazingly linked to the current Torah readings: “Do not sink to the level of those who harass you, but do not cower. Jews are strongest at their broken places.”

Jews are strongest at their broken places, like our father Jacob, who returned from exile lame and leaning on his staff to be reunited with his brother-adversary Esau. Jacob is a model for his descendants. Our journey, like his, is one of vulnerability and struggle, but also one in which we are to recognize the humanity of the Other and thereby keep hope alive.

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