The Glorious Garments of Service

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20 – 30:10

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel 

You are to summon your brother Aharon and his sons to come from among the people of Israel to you, so that they can serve me as cohanim — Aharon and his sons Nadav, Avihu, El‘azar and Itamar. You are to make for your brother Aharon garments set apart for serving God, expressing dignity and splendor. (Exodus 28:1–2)

The priestly garments of dignity and splendor have something to teach us about humility and self-sacrifice. It’s a paradoxical lesson, and we can consider it from the vantage-point of some instructions Messiah Yeshua gave on the way up to Jerusalem for his final Passover.

Yeshua had told his followers what awaited him in the holy city—betrayal, arrest, and a gruesome execution at the hands of Rome. These grim words were hardly out of his mouth when two of his closest followers, Ya’akov and Yochanan, approached him asking for a special favor, perhaps because Yeshua had also said he’d rise after three days: “When you are in your glory, let us sit with you, one on your right and the other on your left.”

Yeshua tells them, “You don’t know what you’re asking! Can you drink the cup that I am drinking? or be immersed with the immersion that I must undergo?” Ya’akov and Yochanan assure Yeshua that they can, and he says they will indeed share in the cup and immersion of his suffering. “But to sit on my right and on my left is not mine to give. Rather, it is for those for whom it has been prepared” (Mark 10:35–40 CJB).

Yeshua’s response—“it is not mine to give”—can be understood as one of several statements of his apparent limitations in the Besorah of Mark, like his inability to do miracles when he visited his hometown (6:5), or his response to the rich man who called him “Good rabbi”—“Why are you calling me good? No one is good except God!” (10:18). Yeshua is the anointed heir of David, who will come in glory to sit on David’s throne, but God is the ultimate authority and Yeshua can’t simply hand out favors.

The mystery of Yeshua’s divine-human status confronts us here, but there’s another implication of “it’s not mine to give.” In this kingdom, positions of status are not handed out along the usual lines of charisma, clout, and connections. Perhaps Yeshua is not contrasting himself and God so much as contrasting his kingdom and all other kingdoms. Status in his kingdom isn’t gained by the usual means of power and insider access, but is reserved for those “for whom it has been prepared”—a lesson that the rest of Yeshua’s followers need to learn, because they become outraged when they hear about the request of Ya’akov and Yochanan.

But Yeshua called them to him and said to them, “You know that among the Goyim, those who are supposed to rule them become tyrants, and their superiors become dictators. But among you, it must not be like that! On the contrary, whoever among you wants to be a leader must be your servant; and whoever wants to be first among you must become everyone’s slave! (Mark 10:42–44)

For anyone who has yearned to be “seen,” as in today’s jargon, who has struggled with feelings of envy and competitiveness, Yeshua’s words provide a way out. Accept the place God has given you and use that position to serve others.

At first glance, however, the inauguration of the High Priest in this week’s parasha might seem to reflect the sort of exalted leadership and religious hierarchy that Yeshua decries. Aaron, the chosen one, is given “holy garments . . . for beauty and for splendor” (Exod 28:2). But among these garments are hints of the same paradoxical truth Messiah Yeshua is seeking to instill in his followers: Fulfillment in the Kingdom of God doesn’t come from jockeying for a place on center stage, but from serving in the place that God has prepared for us.

The High Priest is to wear a choshen, or breastplate, on which twelve precious stones are set, each one engraved with the name of a tribe of Israel. “So Aaron shall bear the names of the sons of Israel on the breastplate of judgment over his heart, when he goes into the holy place, as a memorial before the Lord continually” (28:29). The High Priest, however gloriously he is clothed, is a burden-bearer. He carries the names of the children of Israel over his heart even in his moment of highest exaltation, when he goes into the holy place and appears before Adonai himself. He is raised up as a leader among his people, yet he is a burden-bearer serving them all. “Whoever among you wants to be a leader must be your servant; and whoever wants to be first among you must become everyone’s slave!”

Furthermore, on the breastplate each of the tribes is represented equally. Each has a set place, a place “prepared” for it, and none is higher or lower than any other.  

Only when every stone was in its place would the priest be able to don the breastplate and thus be fully ready to fulfill his service to the Divine. The instructions for the choshen ensured that there was a place for every tribe and that none’s space dominated any other. By divine design, all of Israel was given their rightful space. (Rabbi Leah Lewis in The Mussar Torah Commentary)

Rabbi Lewis here is highlighting the arrangement of stones as a symbol of humility, which isn’t a matter of self-abasement, or coy comments about how “it’s not about me.” Dignity and humility go hand in hand, and humility means discovering and occupying our rightful space—neither too high nor too low—in God’s design. And as Yeshua teaches us, this rightful space will be one of service to others.

But serving others is such a familiar ideal that we can easily agree to it and then neglect it. The names on the breastplate hint at one way to avoid that pitfall: letting the name of the other person, their identity and their struggles, the realities of their life, matter deep with ourselves, just as Aaron bears the names over his heart. Yes, it’s important to maintain good personal boundaries, but we also need to let others truly matter to us. Out of that connection arises service that’s not an abstract ideal, but real-life action that will mean something in the life of the one we want to serve.  

The breastplate bearing the names of the tribes of Israel, each in its place, reminds us also to embrace our God-given place and not to compare ourselves with the other servants; neither to seek a better position than theirs, nor to grovel in our lowliness. Instead, we’re to serve within the space God has prepared for us . . . and prepared us for, “even as the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve” (Mark 10:45a).

Organized Religion

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

Matt Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

And you shall put the mercy seat on the top of the ark, and in the ark you shall put the testimony that I shall give you. There I will meet with you, and from above the mercy seat, from between the two cherubim that are on the ark of the testimony, I will speak with you about all that I will give you in commandment for the people of Israel. (Exodus 25:21–22 ESV)

 Permit me to dive into this week’s reflection with some questions.

Did Moses pray to God?

If Moses were walking the quiet stillness of the desert night, would he hear the voice of God in the same way as he hears it inside the Mishkan, or does Moses save all the conversation for his morning “chat” with God, face to face?

Assuming you had access to the very voice of God, and assuming you were chosen to directly speak to God face to face, what precisely would your prayer life look like?

These questions are asked to explore how God’s voice speaks to us, in different ways, in different places, for different purposes. Clearly, God has called our forefathers into the wilderness to worship him, with the Mishkan at the epicenter of our physical place of worship. The Mishkan, then, is an organized place inside space and time, within which our forefathers and God would meet with one another. The Mishkan is the place where God spoke with Moses.

The intentionality of the design of the Mishkan must not slip from our view. The purity of the gold and silver, the weight, measurements, design, and layout, the soft radiance of the menorah, the rich colors and so forth; all of this sublimity in design, materials, intentionality, planning, focus, hard work, cooperation, was driven by one overarching purpose: to create an organized space where God would dwell with us and speak with us. This effort and purpose are mirrored in the haftarah portion with the building of Solomon’s Temple (1 Kings 5:26–6:13).

This intentionality and purpose gifted our forefathers with a cohesive framework to jointly worship God, a framework that culminates in the creation of the most intense and sacred days of our calendar. Worship was to take place at a specific place, at a specific time, guided by specific people, using specific elements, within a specific ritual, for a specific outcome. Any deviation from the specificities endangered both the priesthood and the community with bearing the full weight of God’s unquenchable fire. To hear God’s voice as a community our forefathers had to organize and regulate their religious services around a given set of mishpatim, rules or ordinances. The religion of our forefathers, of Mount Sinai, of the Mishkan, is an organized religion.

So, we see that the voice of God to Moses, and by extension to the assembly of Israel, came by way of an organized and intentional religious space. It was not random or haphazard. It was not spontaneous or unconstrained. God’s voice came within an organized space and time.

This is not to say that Gods voice can only be heard inside an organized space; clearly this notion is not biblical. But rather, this is to say that God’s voice is heard in a particular way, only through an organized space. When we come to Yom Kippur or Shavuot or Shabbat services, we join together to hear God’s voice in that particular way, as he speaks to us mysteriously as individuals, but simultaneously as a collective flock. Communal worship brings God’s voice to us in a particular way, which can only be heard within the community setting.

Branching out from this pattern is the principle that we should organize our own place of prayer and meditation at home in an intentional and organized way. We should not leave our devotional life to the winds of spontaneity, randomness, and haphazardness. But rather we should be intentional about the time, place, and purpose of our devotional and quiet times before the Lord. When we do so, we create a deliberately organized space where we can hear the voice of God, which can only be heard in that particular way.

It is a very Jewish thing for us to be disciplined in our spiritual walk. The daily and weekly liturgy offers us a framework to communally enter into an organized space and time to hear God’s voice.

May this drash offer a word of strength to those who, in alignment with the worship at the Mishkan, integrate the liturgical prayers into their daily worship; and a word of encouragement to those who find themselves struggling with “organized religion.” I encourage us all to discipline our worship within an organized and intentional space and time so that, like Moses, we might hear God speak with us there.  

A Way to Live in the Presence of the Lord

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

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

This week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, can feel like a bit of a letdown following the sacred drama at Mount Sinai recorded for posterity in Parashat Yitro. At the conclusion of last week’s parasha, Israel is given immortality with its designation as a “Kingdom of Priests and a Holy Nation” (Exod 19:6). Mishpatim, literally “ordinances,” on the other hand, is often thought of as a law book pronouncing mundane rules that deal with a plethora of subjects, such as slavery, economic equality, the sacredness of life, animal welfare, the role of women, and it even begins with what are essentially labor laws. But it is through these diverse mundane ordinances that the opportunity is afforded Israel, and by extension the entire world, to work toward Gamar HaTikkun, the final repair of the created order.

It is not until the end of the portion, though, that we get a glimpse of this glorious destiny!

Circling back to an event that many commentators believe took place before Moses ascended the mountain to receive the Torah, we are presented with an extraordinary vision witnessed by Moses, Aaron, Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu, and the seventy elders (Exod 24:1–11). These Israelites had a vision of the light of the Creator. What they appear to see is a brick of sapphire resting beneath the feet of God under Kisei Hakavod, the holy throne. The vision of God sitting on a throne (kisei) is described by several prophets, among them Micah (1 Kings 22:19), Isaiah (Isa 6), Ezekiel (Ezek 1), and Daniel (Dan 7:9). The Hekhalot tracts of the early centuries of the Common Era speak of the throne as the merkavah, or “chariot,” which can carry us to the loftier place of presence before the Holy Blessing One. Though the Hekhalot tractates are extremely esoteric and generally considered unreliable, they do offer a window into the historical thinking of Jewish mystical traditions. But what is unique is this brick of sapphire under God’s feet!

A midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 23:8) interprets this strange vision as an image from the past. Before his people were redeemed from Egypt, God kept before him this “brick,” symbolizing the bricks and mortar to which they were enslaved; it was a visual expression of the idea that God was with them in their suffering. After their release from slavery, however, this brickwork was cast away and no longer seen in the heavens. But is this just a mere remembrance?

Then Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel went up.  They saw the God of Israel, and under His feet was something like a pavement of sapphire, as clear as the very heavens.  Yet He did not raise His hand against the nobles of Bnei-Yisrael. So, they beheld God, and ate and drank. (Exod 24:9–10 TLV)

From a Messianic Jewish perspective it is noteworthy that the Holy One is not merely incarnate in a pillar of smoke or a pillar of fire, but he is fully corporeal (apologies to the Rambam)!  Not only does the King have feet, but he is sitting upon a throne . . . so he has a posterior!   

Rather than viewing this as an exclusively retrospective image, perhaps it has an anticipatory significance as well. This strange vision has the capacity to create connections between conflicting events of incredible magnitude and intention. In Egypt, the people were previously slaves of Pharaoh, forced to build cities of bricks made from straw; however, at Sinai they have become a people who want to serve God. The brick of sapphire contains within it the residue of an earlier period, but the same image also points towards the glorious future. The brick shines like the purest heavens. The choice seems clear, do you wish to build tombs for Pharoah or a Kingdom with the Holy Creator?

So, Mishpatim is not simply about legal details and minutia; rather it is the building block of a just society, a world under the rule of the rightful King. There is no King without a kingdom, and no kingdom without a King. God’s highest standards return us to a world where we understandably see the King on his Kisei HaKavod, and when the King is on his throne, we do not have to bear the weight of the world on our shoulders. So, the world will be repaired, one heavenly brick at a time—and we are destined to be more than spectators, as we dwell in the presence of the Lord.   

Breaking Bread with God

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

Matthew Absolon, Congregation Beth T’filah, Hollywood, FL

 Jethro said, “Blessed be the Lord, who has delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians and out of the hand of Pharaoh and has delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians. Now I know that the Lord is greater than all gods, because in this affair they dealt arrogantly with the people.” And Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, brought a burnt offering and sacrifices to God; and Aaron came with all the elders of Israel to eat bread with Moses’ father-in-law before God. (Exodus 18:10–12)

Often when we read the great accounts of God visiting our forefathers in all his glorious splendor, we wonder how our faith would be strengthened or what our reaction would be if we were to encounter God in this way. Moses on the mountain, Isaiah caught up into the very throne room of God; these accounts fill our individual and collective imaginations of our God as high and lofty, untouchable, unapproachable.

In contrast to this is a wonderful little line nestled within the opening verses of Parashat Yitro: “And Aaron came with all the elders of Israel to eat bread with Moses’ father-in-law before God” (Exod 18:12b).

Both Rashi and Ibn Ezra comment on the setting “before God,” literally “at the face of Elohim.” Ibn Ezra comments on the proximity of the meal to the Mishkan, taking some interpretive license, since the Mishkan would come later. In attempting to clarify this, Rabbenu Bachya of the 11th C would comment “in the presence of God . . . in front of the pillar of cloud or the pillar of fire.”

But Rashi gifts us a more humble interpretation, more homely, more heimish. Rashi explains, “From this statement that they were ‘before God,’ we may learn that one who takes part in [lit., who has enjoyment from] a meal at which scholars sit may be regarded as though he has enjoyment from the splendor of the Shechina.”

The image that Rashi gives us is not that God was actually seated at the table, as he would be in later chapters with Moses and the elders, but rather that the act of breaking bread together, and giving thanks for God’s goodness, invites the very presence of God to be at the table with Jethro, Moses, and the elders. This reading presents a view of God as one who is present amongst his people as we cross the Red Sea, as we dance for victory, as we sit and dine with each other at the table. God’s presence goes with us.

In the second century BCE, there arose a prominent Greek philosopher by the name of Epicurus. He surmised that the gods did not care about human affairs, and that they remain distant, aloof, and altogether disinterested in the day-to-day struggles of the common man. He began the sect of the Epicureans in Athens. In Acts 17:18 we see Paul dialoguing and arguing with the descendants of his school. Epicurus’ idea of lofty and disinterested deities had great traction in the first century religious marketplace. Some 1800 years later, the philosophy of Epicurus was reborn and found widespread purchase during the enlightenment period of the 17th and 18th centuries. Even the great father of our country Thomas Jefferson once wrote “I too am an Epicurean.”

This notion of a god who is distant and detached, who sits high and lofty, sanitized from the daily goings and froings of mankind, sits very comfortably with those who themselves wish to remain distant from the hand of their creator. It is a narrow-minded and self-indulgent view of God as this snobbish judge, like a Parisian aristocrat, always faultfinding and certainly not to be engaged at the level of human commonality. This sanitization of the spirit world from the human world has played out in the modern era, particularly in our western cultural psyche, where we in cosmopolitan fashion keep our faith in a neatly sanitized box, quite separate from the muddiness of day-to-day living.

This philosophy is not Jewish, and it is not biblical. In this week’s Haftarah portion, we read of a parallel to our reading in Exodus. Firstly, Isaiah’s stupendous vision of the throne room of God (Isa 6:1– 4). That great and awesome encounter, which has found itself into our daily liturgical portions, resounds in lofty terms of “king,” “high upon his throne,” “the train of his robe,” “the Lord of hosts,” and so on. But as we read the second portion, we encounter a starkly different vision of God:

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isa 9:6)

This vision of God is one who is very near to us; a child, a son, a counselor, a father; these anthropomorphic terms bring God to a place that is very relatable to each and every one of us. I have a child, I have a son, I have wonderful counselors in my life, I am a father. These terms bring God into our home so that he is not lofty and distant, but rather he is close and near.

This is one of the great mysteries of our Lord Yeshua. His claim to kingship and lordship was not because he was “high and lofty,” but rather because he is “humble and lowly of heart” (Matt 11:29). Yeshua is the incarnate image of the very closeness of God. He who steps down to embrace a little child, to heal the sick, to walk amongst the outcasts, who shares in a meal of fire-roasted fish there on the shore side in Galilee.

In returning to our opening scene of Moses and the elders breaking bread and giving thanks “before God,” I would like to offer a reflection for our daily lives. When we break bread with our loved ones are we aware of God’s presence in that moment? Do we invite God into the goings and froings of our daily life? Do we hold our lives in transparency “before God,” so that in the contracts that we sign and the customers we serve; in the meals we prepare and share; in our leisure time and in our work time; we live out our lives “before God”?

I encourage us all to welcome Yeshua into our homes and around our tables so that like our forefathers, we may break bread with God.

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.