Our Priority: Conservation or Contagion?

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1–24:23

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

Years ago, I worked at a Bible-based residential drug treatment center located on the site of a former Catholic boarding school. One day, a man from the neighborhood showed up at my office and asked if he could talk with me. I welcomed him in and he asked, “Are you a father?” I said yes, because I had four children, and he said, “Well, Father, here’s my story.” For my neighbor, “Are you a father?” meant “Are you a priest?” I had to tell him that I wasn’t, but we had a good conversation anyway.

As I thought about it later, though, I realized that in Messiah I actually am a priest, called to stay close to God and represent him among those around me. I possessed quite a bit of what my neighbor was looking for. Without claiming to fill the specific office he had in mind, I had something to offer through staying in touch with the Almighty, being filled with the Spirit, and keeping myself separate from the manifold pollutions of everyday life.

The qualities of priestly service laid out in Parashat Emor, however, don’t seem so attractive to our modern sensibilities. The priest or cohen puts a lot of energy into guarding his holiness, so that he’s limited in how he mourns the dead, and is banned from marrying the wrong sort of woman. Through Moses, the Lord instructs Aaron, “None of your descendants who has a defect may approach to offer the bread of his God. No one with a defect may approach — no one blind, lame,” or possessing any number of flaws (Lev 21:17–18). Even if the priest is free from these “defects,” he becomes unclean, and temporarily barred from priestly service, if he has tzara’at (so-called “leprosy”) or a bodily discharge, or touches another person made unclean by a dead body or a discharge, or “who is unclean for any reason and who can transmit to him his uncleanness” (Lev 22:5). Becoming unclean is temporary, but entering the holy place in an unclean state is a grave offense, so the priest must remain on guard.

The focus in this week’s portion, therefore, is on guarding and conserving the holiness required of a priest. Since all Israel is called to be “a kingdom of cohanim” for Adonai, “a nation set apart” (Exod 19:6), conservation of holiness becomes a priority for the people as a whole. When Messiah Yeshua appears on the scene, however, he acts in ways that may at first seem to challenge this whole priestly system and its stringent requirements. But a closer look reveals how Yeshua upholds the Torah, even as he expands its redemptive impact.

In one of the first scenes in Mark’s account, for example, we see a man falling on his knees and begging Yeshua to cleanse him of his tzara’at. Yeshua reaches out his hand, and touches the man, saying, “Be cleansed!” Now, Yeshua does a lot of touching throughout his entire healing ministry (as in Mark 3:10; 5:27–31; 6:56; 7:33; 8:22–23) . . . but one afflicted with tzara’at is unclean and will render unclean anyone who touches him. When Yeshua touches this “leper,” then, many readers and scholars see him as rejecting the whole purity-holiness code of Torah. The code, however, doesn’t specifically forbid touching such a person, but it states that such touching will result in at least temporary uncleanness. Yeshua’s holiness, however, is not corrupted by contact with the unclean as would normally happen; rather it “uncorrupts” the unclean and makes it pure. Touching a leper normally makes one unclean; but when Yeshua touches this leper, the leper becomes clean. Yeshua manifests a “prophetic, invasive holiness that needs no protection, but reaches out to sanctify the profane,” as Mark Kinzer describes it, a holiness that is “contagious,” as scholar Matthew Thiessen puts it in his book, Jesus and the Forces of Death. This contagious holiness reflects the power of God’s Kingdom pushing back against the forces of death that have corrupted the created order, at least since Adam and Eve defied God’s command in the garden. 

Lest we think that this contagion of holiness is overturning the priestly system, Mark lets us know that Yeshua sends the man to the priest for confirmation of his cleansing, in accord with the Torah (Lev 14:1–32). The priest cannot cleanse tzara’at—that is the work of Adonai alone—but he has the authority to certify the cleansing when it happens, and Yeshua endorses that authority and its role in providing “a testimony to the people” (1:44). The genius of Mark’s account, reflecting the genius of Messiah himself, is to affirm both the conservation and contagion of holiness.  

As a preacher and teacher, I’m tempted to draw a contrast in our treatment of holiness between conservation and contagion. Are we mostly concerned with preserving our spiritual status quo and protecting our community from the corrosive influence of an increasingly secular and lawless culture? Are we aligning with the stereotype invoked by those who are disenchanted with God, religion, and religious people, that is, defining ourselves by what we’re against and what we don’t do, rather than what we are for? Or are we ready to spread around the spiritual benefits bestowed on us—confident that whatever holiness we might have is contagious?

So, it’s not so much a matter of contrast between conservation and contagion; we need both. The stability and separation of a healthy religious community provides a platform for influencing the surrounding culture. So let’s not be afraid of touching and lifting up those around us who might seem lost or hopeless. We might be afraid of catching something around them, but they might actually catch something good from us. Let’s be ready to touch those our culture might think of as unclean.

When Yeshua sends the cleansed man to the priest, he warns him to say nothing to anyone else about what has happened. The man, however, goes out and freely spreads the news (and we don’t even know whether he ever makes it to the priest), so that Yeshua can “no longer enter a town openly but stayed out in the country” (1:45), ironically reflecting the conditions of the so-called leper, who has to stay away from the towns and dwell apart (Lev 13:46). But the people still find a way to get to Yeshua and continue “coming to him from all around.” And so the contagion of holiness spreads.  

Scripture references are from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB).

Sweat the Small Stuff

Parashat Kedoshim, Leviticus 19:1–20:27 

Dave Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy (kedoshim), for I, the Lord your God, am holy. (Lev 19:1–2)

Parashat Kedoshim begins with an injunction to be holy. I hesitate to define what holy means, though it includes the idea of being set apart, or profoundly other. Just the idea of taking on a characteristic that is attributed to God is, well, somewhere between impossibly daunting and downright mind-blowing. 

What does it take to be holy? Apparently for us, based on the verses that follow, it is to honor your parents, avoid idolatry, observe Shabbat, perform sacrifices correctly, and make provision for the economically (and otherwise) disadvantaged. The requirements are dizzying in their variety: do not hate your kinsman in your heart; do not wear cloth made from a mixture of two kinds of material.

It is as if the Torah gives us a simple, straightforward prescription—be holy—and immediately goes on to show how it is not simple or straightforward at all. I suppose that is fitting: “how one should live” is a sufficiently broad question so as to resist easy answers. 

Commenting on this parasha in his excellent book, The Heart of Torah, R. Shai Held focuses on one verse in particular:

You shall not insult (lo tekalel) the deaf, or place a stumbling block before the blind. You shall fear your God: I am the Lord. (19:14)

R. Held points out that the verb קלל (k-l-l), to insult, connotes taking the deaf person lightly. The opposite is כבד (k-v-d), to honor, or treat something as weighty. So, in this verse, fearing God is the opposite of taking a person lightly: it means treating them with honor or gravity.

From the perspective of a simplistic, utilitarian ethic, you’d think there is nothing wrong with insulting the deaf. They can’t hear you! As Rashi points out, it’s a victimless crime. No harm, no foul. And yet, if a reason is given for this commandment, it has nothing to do with the victim, but that we should fear God. 

Fear—of God or otherwise—is out of fashion in much of contemporary spiritual discourse. And yet, it is a common motif in the language of scripture. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Psa 111:10); it is “altogether pure” (Psa 19:10); it is one of the basic requirements God makes of us (Deut 10:12).

The Ramchal (R. Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, 1707–1746), in his classic mussar work Mesilat Yesharim, envisions life as a journey through a maze where the final destination is invisible to those inside, but wrong decisions can make the difference between reaching the goal, or not. All the paths inside look the same, and only knowing the way will get you out of the labyrinth.

My natural tendency is to find this off-putting. I tend toward preferring a casual, low-drama spiritual life. I hate dressing up, generally respond to seriousness with humor, and have an allergy to the melodramatic. The Ramchal, however, is hard core. It is evident, not just from his writing, but from what we know of his life, that he almost certainly lacked chill. I bet if he lived today he would wear a button-up shirt every day, if not a suit and tie. And yet, I hesitate to write him off completely. For one thing, in his model of the world, things matter.

There are benefits to a worldview where small things matter. For one thing, it can imbue our lives with real purpose in the day-to-day. Meaning isn’t reserved for those who do big, impressive things like save thousands of disadvantaged children or invent new green technologies; the uber-rich or the policy-makers. No! Your choices and mine, the seemingly little choices we make about how we treat others, eat, spend, even think, have real import.

This principle holds for positive, as well as negative, actions. Years ago I received a chain email (if you’re under 40, think reposted Facebook posts) about how a smile could have outsize impact on the world: you smile at someone and make just enough difference in their day that they do the same to someone else, and the effects ripple out ad infinitum. This strikingly echoes how Chassidic thought understands the performance of mitzvot: the observance of even minor commandments has an unseen material influence on the cosmos; indeed, these mitzvot are the most powerful levers we have to change the world.

Whatever the mechanism, you can think of this as an alternative economy of change. Billionaires pontificate at Davos and politicians attend summits, while in reality, the fate of the world rests on a family removing chametz before Pesach. A smile, a berakha after eating, or a choice to restrain negative speech, become the heroic acts that turn the tide. Indeed, the hardest part of accepting this paradigm is having the faith to see it. 

But once we choose to live in this parallel universe of power in actions, do we have the discipline to constantly push ourselves to raise the bar? Will we have what it takes to engage in regular self-reflection and contemplation, and live with the consistency that holiness requires? 

In America this is the season of NBA and NHL playoffs. Watching these basketball and hockey games, I marvel at the ability of these players to maintain the focus to compete at a high level night after night. Fighting for every rebound matters, as each possession can make the difference between advancing to the next round or getting bounced from the playoffs. I believe the greatest players in the game were not the tallest or fastest, but those who were relentless in their attention to detail and pursuit of excellence (Jordan, Bird, and Ray Allen all come to mind).

Shaul the shaliach was not familiar with playoff basketball, but spoke of the same idea in his time:

Don’t you know that in a stadium the runners all run, but one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win! Every competitor exercises self-control in all respects. They do it to receive a perishable crown, but we do it to receive an imperishable one. So I run in this way—not aimlessly. So I box in this way—not beating the air. Rather, I punish my body and bring it into submission, so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified. (1 Cor 9:24–27, TLV)

This is a similar message to that of the Ramchal, an argument for practicing zehirut, constant attentiveness to how we live. In a sense, to walk through life without self-reflection and seriousness is to lack yirat Hashem, fear of God. It is, if you will, to treat life lightly. The opposite, on the other hand, is to treat life as weighty (kaved), as if it really matters.

Perhaps this is the connection between the hodgepodge of commandments that begin our parasha, and fearing God. Just as Yeshua taught us to be faithful in small matters (Luke 16:10), Kedoshim teaches us to “sweat the details.” The small things are the big things.

May the Holy One grant us the strength—and even an appropriate amount of fear—to be, little by little, holy ourselves.

All quotations from JPS unless otherwise noted.

Walk It Out!

Parashat Acharei Mot, Leviticus 16:1–18:30

Matthew Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Hollywood, FL

 You shall follow my rules and keep my statutes and walk in them. I am the Lord your God. (Lev 18:4 ESV)

This week’s portion deals with the laws regarding forbidden sexual relations. Like many of the mitzvot given to our people, they come with the charge: “You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you lived, and you shall not do as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you. You shall not walk in their statutes” (Lev 18:3 ESV, emphasis added). Alternatively, the Lord declares the positive commandments to “follow . . . keep . . . and walk” in the mishpatim (judgments/rules) and chukotai (statutes) he has given to us. This following, keeping, and walking is to effect sanctification of the Jewish people from the nations that surround them. We should be different from the nations around us in that we hold fast to the godly virtues of love, truth, justice, hope, faith, and life. This sanctification is memorialized as we pray every day, “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with your commandments . . .” and so forth. In order to guard this sanctification, Israel is enjoined to walk in the rules and statutes of the Torah.

But how do we do this? And what does it mean to walk in the Torah?

Commenting on Leviticus18:4, Rashi gives us timeless advice:

TO WALK IN THEM — do not free yourselves from their environment, i.e. that you must not say, I have acquired Jewish wisdom, now I will go and acquire the wisdom of the other peoples of the world in order to walk in their ways.

Through long familiarity, there is a tendency for God’s people to replace the spiritual discipline of walking in the Torah with the acquisition of rationale. In a luciferian way, we surmise that once we know the rationale behind a mitzvah, it is no longer a matter of practice, but that of extraction; that is, I can extract the lesson from the mitzvah and, therefore, actually doing the mitzvah becomes subordinate to the extraction. In this way our pride trumps our obedience. This is a great danger.

Spiritual discipline through the repetitive action—the “walking” out—of the mitzvot builds within us emotional muscle memory. Given that we are largely driven by our emotions (good and not-so-good), any repetitive action binds itself to our personhood, our heart, our mind, and that same action builds within us an emotional response. The more repetitive the action, the deeper the emotional muscle memory.

Take for example the mitzvah of Shabbat. We keep the Shabbat as a reminder of the sovereignty of God over time and space (Exod 31:17). The observance of Shabbat reinforces to us the fundamentals of who God is and who we are in relationship to him and with him. The Shabbat sanctifies us from every other creation story that exists among the nations, and it acts as an inoculation against the spiritual acidity of “Ex nihilo nihil fit” (nothing comes from nothing). So that when we are confronted with the scientific myths and carefully woven theories which exclude God from the work of creation, we become emotionally uncomfortable with the sales pitch.

In a parallel way, the discipline of limiting our sexual relations to those outlined in today’s mitzvah creates in us emotional muscle memory that inoculates us against the sordidness of the nations around us. Those practices that they deem to be acceptable, even “liberating,” we find repugnant and contemptible (see 1 Cor 5). As we walk in the Torah, we reinforce the process of sanctification.

This gift of emotional muscle memory is a direct result of walking in the Torah. It does not come from a carefully articulated apologetic, ready for an opportunity to pontificate. It does not come from hours of study and academic acquisition. It does not come from allegorical extractions.

No, it’s much more powerful than all that. It’s an emotional response that is so inextricably bound up in our spiritual DNA such that any intellect, luciferian or otherwise, cannot move us from the place of knowing in our kishkes that we “shall live by them” (Lev 18:5).

Additionally, we have the indispensable gift of our traditions to help us discipline our spiritual walk and to guide us as we walk in the Torah. This past week, we all opened our Haggadot and observed the Pesach Seder. The Haggadah is a wonderful example of how our traditions help us to walk in the Torah. As we read of our slavery, our outcry, our deliverance, and our freedom; as we partake of the four cups of God’s promise that “I will . . .” (Exod 6:6–7); we strengthen the emotional muscle memory that helps to sustain us during the trying and doubtful times.

For each of us, there will be both similarities and individual uniqueness in our walking in the Torah. Our traditions offer a tried-and-true track to follow, providing a way to walk in the Torah. Beyond that, I encourage us one and all to consider how we might walk in the Torah, through spiritual discipline and inculcating the mitzvot into our daily lives.

Why Is This Passover Different?

Passover 5784

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

Why is this Passover different from all other Passovers?

Many voices within the Jewish community have noted how deeply our observance of Passover in April 2024 is marked by trial and difficulty. How can we celebrate the Season of our Deliverance, Zeman Cherutenu, when over 130 of our brothers and sisters remain in bondage in the tunnels of Hamas? How can we celebrate new life and resurrection hope when Israel is embroiled in deadly warfare? When antisemitic words and deeds are proliferating on campuses and in the public square across America and around the world?

But all this is not what makes this Passover different. Indeed, our Haggadah clearly reminds us, “in every generation they rise against us and seek to destroy us . . .”

I’m talking about another theme of Passover, highlighted throughout the Haggadah, which looks different this year. It’s the mitzvah of remembering Passover, keeping the festival alive for all generations, as Moses teaches us: “This day shall be for you Yom Zikaron, a day of remembrance, and you shall keep it as a festival to Adonai; throughout your generations, as a statute forever, you shall keep it as a festival” (Exod 12:15; see also 12:17, 42; 13:7–8, 14).

This mitzvah of generational transmission has always been demanding, but in recent years it has become uniquely challenging. Telling our children and grandchildren a story rooted in ancient history, and equipping them to pass it on, amidst our culture of endless sound bites and news flashes can be challenging indeed. That’s why Passover in this current generation may be different from all other Passovers.

I recently came across a review of a new book, The Crisis of Narration by philosopher Byung-Chul Han, in First Things, April 2024. Han contends that “narratives—formally constructed stories, rich with allusion and suggestion, open to interpretation by the community [like the Passover story]—are disappearing.” The reviewer continues,

But, one may object, isn’t the world full of narratives? Don’t people turn to their phones in search of Instagram stories? Aren’t politicians always trying to construct a compelling “narrative”? Not so: “The more we talk about narration or narrative,” Han cautions us, “the more we’re alienated from it.” The stream of pseudo-narratives one finds on TikTok, Instagram, or X are replacement calories for a narrative-starved hive mind. Han calls this development “the inflation of narrative.”

The reviewer goes on to say that these pseudo-narratives are a weak substitute for “the complex, allegorical, future-oriented, rich, and humanizing narratives that Han locates . . . in the past”—an apt description of the Passover story that we reenact each year in the Seder.

The “inflation of narrative”—another “every generation” passage in the Haggadah can help us address its challenge:

In every generation let a person look upon himself or herself as personally coming forth from Egypt, as it is written, “You shall tell your child on that day, ‘It is because of what Adonai did for me when I came out of Egypt (Exod 13:8).’” 

This narrative of our deliverance is not inflated, but has profound substance and personal relevance. It’s about far more than me, of course; ultimately it’s about the power and goodness of the God of Israel, who is the God of all humankind. But this God seeks to bring each of us individually into his story, and did so most decisively in Messiah Yeshua, who offered himself as the ransom for our souls, and rose on the third day during Passover long ago. This personalized element—this personal relevance—of our observance of Passover is a key to transmitting it from generation to generation.

All this ties into Sefirat ha-Omer, Counting the Omer, a custom that tracks the days from the present—Passover, season of our deliverance—to the future— Shavuot, Festival of Weeks, season of the giving of Torah (Lev 23:15–17). It’s a tradition of looking toward the future, anticipating what lies ahead, and we capture it in the UMJC tagline for this year’s Counting of the Omer, Kadima: Forward! As we are still in the first week of counting the Omer, I encourage you to join in if you haven’t already. Download your guide to counting the Omer here.

This Omer theme recognizes that keeping the Passover story alive from generation to generation means raising up a new generation of leaders—rabbis, teachers, worship leaders, and members with leadership qualities. But, if you’ve been involved in Messianic Judaism for very long, you know that we’ve been talking about the challenge of generational transmission for years. Thank God, we can see a good number of younger leaders and committed members who’ve been added to our community or equipped within our community in recent years. In truth, however, the numbers are not yet enough to sustain a whole new generation and the generations beyond.

Our haftarah reading for this Shabbat, Ezekiel 37:1–14, provides a clue to addressing the challenge of generational transmission. The reading opens as the Lord brings the prophet in the Ruach, the Spirit of the Lord, to a valley filled with dry human bones, and asks, “Can these bones live?” Ezekiel answers, “O Lord God, you know.” It would seem impossible for these “very dry bones” to just start living, but the prophet has walked with God long enough to know that with him nothing is impossible, and he answers accordingly. And then the Lord hands the impossible task over to Ezekiel.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy over these bones, and say to them, O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: Behold, I will cause ruach—breath—to enter you, and you shall live . . . and you shall know that I am the Lord.” (Ezek 37:4–6)

In context, the bones are the whole house of Israel, exiled and without hope in the “graves” of the nations, and Ezekiel is granted a vision of their spiritual reawakening and return to their own land (37:11–14). But Jewish readers over the centuries have also seen this text as a vision of the promised resurrection at the end of the age, one of the themes of the Passover season, enacted in advance in the Passover resurrection of Messiah Yeshua.

Comparing today’s Messianic Jewish community to a valley filled with dry bones might seem histrionic, or at least overly pessimistic. My focus here, however, isn’t on the bones, but on the prophet. Ezekiel provides a two-fold lesson:

1. In the face of the impossible, he says “Lord, you know.” Our ultimate hope is in God. In his grand scheme, even what appears hopeless to us, whether in our personal and family lives or in the morning news, may unfold in life-giving ways.  

2. He has a part to play in response to the impossible. The prophet tells the bones to live. In our modest way, through prayer, through financial support, and through deeply connecting with our younger generation men and women, we also have a part to play in bringing what might appear as a scene of dry bones back to abundant life.

 This Passover may be different from all others, but its age-old message of hope is still alive and at hand for our community today, as promised through the prophet: “I will put my Spirit among you and you shall live!” (Ezek 37:14).  

Stop the Spread of Evil Speech

Image from the TV series “Gossip Girl”

Parashat Metzora, Leviticus 14:1–15:33

Dr Jeffrey Seif, UMJC Executive Director

When introducing me as guest speaker at Congregation Mayim Chaim on April 13, 2024, Rabbi David Tokajer quipped: “I’m glad Rabbi Jeffrey Seif is here to talk about Parashat Tazria because I’d rather not.” My hunch is the reluctance expressed in jest had nothing to do with his being afraid of Leviticus 12:1–13:59, as much as it did with the fact that the passages in both last week’s and this week’s readings (Leviticus 12–13 and 14–15) are so far removed from contemporary experience that it’s difficult to find a modern-day application. The readings both weeks speak to, for, and about communicable skin diseases. This week’s reading, Parashat Metzora, alights upon the post-partum quarantine of mothers, upon priests acting as medical inspectors examining dermatological anomalies, upon priests examining and condemning properties, and more. It’s tough to preach from.

Unlike today—where we operate in a world that places a premium on distinguishing between the secular and the sacred (e.g., the premium placed on separating church and state)—in the world of Leviticus, priests served in various capacities as agents of a theocratic state. In that regard, though they occasionally attended to sacerdotal functions, they also served as medical inspectors, building inspectors, and more.

Priests functioned in another time and in another world, one far removed from our own. Challenges associated with bringing light from this ancient parasha to bear on modern experience notwithstanding, oddly for me, it was while I was working on this particular section of hard-to-tackle biblical literature that I got my first “ah-ha!” lightbulb moment as a young spiritual leader and exegete.

While wrestling with Leviticus, and reading through the commentary of former chief rabbi of the British Empire Dr J. H. Hertz, I was struck by his treatment of Leviticus 13:1ff. Commenting on the skin diseases noted therein (that is, “leprosy”), he informed us: “[Some] rabbis regard leprosy as a Providential affliction in punishment for slander or tale bearing; thus teaching that the slanderer is a moral leper, and should find no place in the camp of Israel” (Pentateuch & Haftorahs, 461). Though I’m not personally convinced that leprosy is a providential affliction, I was struck by a recollection that another Jewish sage, Rabbi Sha’ul (Paul), insinuated as much in 2 Timothy 2:14–18. Therein, in v. 16, he beckoned Timothy to “avoid godless chatter,” noting in v. 17 that worthless, ill-spoken “words will spread like cancer” (TLV and NKJV). Closer to the actual Greek, other versions replace “cancer” with “gangrene” (cf. NIV and RSV), given that Sha’ul uses the Greek gangraina—that is, the well-known skin condition denoting tissue death.

Different renditions aside, we do well to note that, with other rabbis, Rabbi Sha’ul correlated reckless speech with an infectious skin disease that starts off as a small infection, grows if left unchecked, and eventually consumes and kills the body as it expands. James says as much, too. For his part, James, like Moses and Sha’ul, spoke to, for, and about the deleterious power of the tongue. In James 3:8, for example, he likened the tongue to a “restless evil, full of deadly poison” (TLV). In so doing, James—better, Ya’akov—parroted the Jewish premium on avoiding lashon hara, that is, an “evil tongue.” His noting inherent problems with evil speech dovetails with the scourge associated with malicious gossip and misinformed speech noted in this week’s Torah portion.

Better understanding traditional Jewish interpretations and applications in Leviticus chapters 12–15 enabled me to better understand what a New Testament writer was saying in 2 Timothy 2:17. Something I dimly saw in black-and-white suddenly burst forth in Technicolor. The confluence, for me, is the power Jewish studies brings to bear on New Testament understanding. Refracting the “Good News” through the eyes of the Jews is the benchmark of Messianic Jewish theology—something I have been engaged in as a professor for 34 years. Bonding together as a community, with a mind to creatively abide in both the Old and New Testament worlds (Jewish and Messianic / Jews and Gentiles) is the trademark of Messianic Jewish congregational life—something we abide in. We work with the Good News through the eyes of the Jews and endeavor to live out the insights and implications together.

“Togetherness” can get a little messy. The movement is new and there’s considerable variance amongst adherents. I encourage patience with one another, believing it best we grant others space to work out the essence and substance of Messianic Jewish faith and orthopraxy. I believe it’s important to give grace—not just space; sometimes we can be guilty of (how can I put it), lashon hara—evil speech.

Have you ever heard of the “Ink Blot” test? A Danish physician named Herman Rorschach asked individuals to describe what they saw when they observed ink splattered on a piece of paper in a clinical setting. Viewing a mushroom configuration on a paper, for example, some described it as an atom bomb blast, a ping pong paddle, a mushroom, or whatever . . . there was no right or wrong answer. It is a projective analysis test, with people eventually describing themselves by the things they were purporting to describe.

As individuals proceeded through a variety of ink blots, patterns emerged on how they processed and evaluated images. I’m less interested in giving a psychological assessment lesson than I am in noting that individuals who are excessively and incessantly critical of persons, circumstances, or places do more to describe their own interior negative dispositions than the things they purport to describe.

People who traffic in gossip about people they really don’t know, and about situations where they’re really not privy to the necessary details, say more about themselves than anything—and they hurt three people in the process. First, they injure their own humanity by trafficking in gossip; second, they take a piece out of the person they are talking about, and then, third, they injure the person they are talking to. In Proverbs 16:27, gossiping lips are likened to a “scorching fire,” and in v. 28, those with loose lips are referred to as “perverse” because they “separate close friends” (TLV).

For these reasons, it seems to me that our rabbis got it right when noting the deleterious effects of slander, much as Rabbi Sha’ul hit the nail on the head by likening bad speech to a cancer or gangrene that starts as a small blot and then destroys the body as it grows. Cognizant of this as I am, I’m reminded of the necessity to be more tolerant of theological variance, patient with those who don’t think like me, and more guarded in the way I speak. With Passover in view, permit me to remind us of the necessity of taking out the old leaven, in this case that of degrading speech— lashon hara. We want to build up and not tear down. There are lots of problems in this world; by following principles noted in this week’s Torah portion I can better position myself to be part of the cure—and so can you!

Doctors of the Soul

Parashat Tazria, Leviticus 12:1–13:59

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

 The kohen shall look at the affliction on the skin of the flesh: If the hair in the affliction has changed to white, and the affliction’s appearance is deeper than the skin of the flesh—it is a tzara’at affliction; the kohen shall look at it and declare him contaminated. (Leviticus 13:3)

The Torah requires that the kohen, or priest, examine the person with tzara’at, an apparently severe and contagious skin affliction that is often wrongly translated as leprosy. Yet here in Leviticus chapter 13, the kohen is asked to observe it twice in the same verse. So why is there this obvious redundancy? Rabbi Yisrael Yehoshua Tronk of Kutno, a 19th century posek (a recognized decider of halakha) opined that it is incumbent when one sees an afflicted person that he also sees him as a whole person. The kohanim were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal.

Rabbi Yehoshua of Nazareth, the greatest posek of all, is also the Kohen Gadol, the Great High Priest in heaven and earth. The Besorot (Gospels) record many stories of Yeshua healing individuals who are broken. In Luke 14, he chose to heal a man whose entire body was bloated as the result of tzara’at. The healing occurs in the home of a prominent Pharisaic scholar. Apparently, the sick man is in some way related to the household and is just lying suffering and, we might infer, dying. What is ironic is that the group of men who were present had the power to heal but they were largely unaware of it. It was an untapped power, since they preferred to stand in judgment rather than invite the man to the table and see him as anything other than a lost soul. Only those who know they are broken can offer healing to others.

Some people are not healed because they choose not to be healed. Yeshua once came upon a paraplegic at the pool of Beit-Zata who had been sitting there for years waiting to be lowered into the reputedly therapeutic waters. Yeshua asked the man the most enigmatic question: “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:1–6). The question seems so counter-intuitive. Why else might a sick man wait for therapy? Still, so many people avoid healing, both intentionally and inadvertently. They often lower their ideals to accommodate their present inability to fulfill their potential. Oddly, many people would rather languish in pain and isolation than risk the failure of trying and trusting. Therefore, Yeshua’s simple remedy was to ask the man to pick up his mat and walk. We are often crippled by our own fear of trying.

I have always been amazed and inspired by the story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10). Zacchaeus is a tax collector who climbs a tree to get a glimpse of Yeshua. From the reading we can deduce what is obvious in the social-historical context of the text. Tax collectors were considered “sinners,” collaborators with the illegitimate and pagan government. Yeshua’s rhetoric, though, would say anything but that: “Zacchaeus come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” Yeshua goes on to describe Zacchaeus as a “son of Abraham also.” Yeshua is not merely appealing to Zacchaeus’s lineage, rather to a promise of Torah, which in that social context had long since been domesticated and dismissed when it came to Zacchaeus and those like him. The point here is that Zacchaeus accepts Yeshua’s counter-verdict and begins the process of living up to it, giving half his possessions to the poor and paying back four times what he has gained illicitly, twice the degree of repentance prescribed for such an act in Torah. Zacchaeus’ desire and effort to be spiritually healed is matched and encouraged by Yeshua’s desire to see him as he can be rather than as he presently is.

I’d like to offer one more example, this one of a modern-day kohen and the spiritually broken metzorah (“leper”) who crossed the threshold into his life. The story is recorded in the 1995 book, Not by the Sword: How a Cantor and His Family Transformed a Klansman by Kathryn Watterson, and it remains sadly relevant in our current climate of rising antisemitism worldwide. 

Michael Weisser was a trained conservative cantor, recently graduated and ordained as such. He was offered the position as spiritual leader of a small synagogue in Lincoln, Nebraska; a synagogue that did not have the resources or appeal to call an ordained rabbi. But, shortly after moving his family into a house on Randolph Street in Lincoln, he began to receive threatening antisemitic phone calls. “You’ll be sorry you moved into 5810 Randolph Street, Jew boy.” The calls became more frequent and were accompanied by letters as well. They were all coming from a man named Larry Trapp who had connections and credentials from several white supremacist organizations. He had been terrifying Jews and other minorities in Lincoln for almost a decade.

The truth is that the terrifying specter of Larry Trapp was merely an illusion. Trapp was a severe diabetic who had already lost both legs to amputation and was confined to a wheel chair. He was a sad, angry, disenfranchised man, a victim of abuse himself, who used terror to try to regain some control over his world in lieu of the acceptance he craved. One day when Trapp called, Cantor Weisser and his wife inexplicably began to read Psalms to him over the phone. Following a series of strange developments during subsequent calls, Cantor Weisser went to visit the man who still was a symbol of fear to his family. He was shocked to see the broken man who had previously terrified him and was appalled at the squalor in which he lived. He continued to visit Larry Trapp until his health had faltered so severely that he could no longer care for himself. Trapp moved in with the Weisser family, and, in a still stranger turn of events, converted to Judaism and became a member of the family. He lived with the Weisser family for years, and they became his caregivers until his physical maladies from years of abuse overcame him. He was buried in a Jewish cemetery and was remembered fondly by many of the people in the community whom he had previously terrorized.

 To be healed we must see ourselves as whole. To fill our role as a nation of kohanim we must see others also as whole. Let us then rise to the occasion.

This commentary first appeared in slightly different form on UMJC.org in 2021.

Being the Chosen People is Dangerous

Illustration from the Szyk Haggadah

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47
Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

 “I will dwell among the children of Israel and will be their God.” (Exodus 29:45)

 As the nation in whom God dwells, Israel is in grave danger. (Michael Wyschogrod)

 And the Lord said to Moses, “Go down and warn the people, lest they break through to gaze at the Lord, and many of them perish.” (Exodus 19:21)

 God’s Dwelling

For most of Exodus, and thus far in Leviticus, we are reading about a special tent, the tent of meeting, commanded by God to be built by Israel’s most gifted artisans. This is to be God’s dwelling place in the midst of Israel. Because of the presence of the Holy God in the midst of a sinful people, there are many rules and barriers set up to avoid death to those who would venture too close, or improperly, to the Presence of God.

If this is true for Israel as a whole, God’s priestly nation among the nations of the world, how much more for the family of Aaron, chosen to be the priestly family of the priestly people, called to minister at the very altar and dwelling of God’s Presence? The great tragedy in this week’s portion makes the danger of election all too evident.

Now Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, each took his censer and put fire in it and laid incense on it and offered unauthorized fire before the Lord, which he had not commanded them. And fire came out from before the Lord and consumed them, and they died before the Lord. (Lev 10:1–2)

Aaron and his sons, in last week’s portion, had just presented many offerings of consecration for their own appointed roles in the priestly service of the altar and sanctuary. They had, moreover, completed their consecration period, by remaining in their holy garments for seven days at the door of the tent of meeting. Here, they ate only “clean” food specified for them by God.

The Glory of the Lord Will Appear to You

At the beginning of this week’s portion, God directs Moses to bring a final series of consecration offerings - burnt offerings and sin offerings - both for the priests and for the people.

So [the people] brought what Moses commanded before the tabernacle of meeting. And all the congregation drew near and stood before the Lord. Then Moses said, “This is the thing which the Lord commanded you to do, and the glory of the Lord will appear to you.” (Lev 9:5-6)

When all the offerings were completed, thereby officially making Aaron and his sons ready for their priestly duties, Aaron lifted his hands and blessed the people. Aaron and Moses entered the sanctuary. When they came out, they both blessed the people again.

And fire came out from before the Lord and consumed the burnt offering and the fat on the altar. When all the people saw it, they shouted and fell on their faces. (Lev. 9:24)

 This is reminiscent of Elijah on Mount Carmel:

Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood and the stones and the dust, and it licked up the water that was in the trench. Now when all the people saw it, they fell on their faces; and they said, “The Lord, he is God! The Lord, he is God!” (1 Kings 18: 38-39)

In both cases, the people were rightly afraid. God is powerful! And dangerous!

Tragically, it seems that two of the four sons of Aaron were acting disrespectfully, or possibly just hastily, by offering “profane fire before the Lord which he had not commanded them.”

Immediately “fire went out from before the Lord and consumed them.” These are the exact same Hebrew words that are written just two verses before, to describe the event Moses referred to as the “glory of the Lord” appearing: “fire went out from before the Lord and consumed the burnt offering” (9:24).

This danger inherent in closeness to God, whether by physical proximity or spiritual identification, can be seen as two-fold:

First, there is the danger that comes from God Himself. God is Holy. Creatures tainted by death cannot survive in His presence. Julia Blum has written a book (If You Be the Son of God, Come Down from the Cross), in which she beautifully shows, from the Scriptures, how Israel suffers for being the chosen son of God. Her thesis is that the mark of sonship is suffering and sacrifice. She shows how the punishments of God are a necessary element of the relationship that will eventually turn into blessing. Nevertheless, as in the case of Nadav and Avihu, there is a real element of cause and effect when Israel, especially those in Aaron’s line, fails to obey and listen to God.

Second, there is the great danger from the nations of the world. Jewish theologian Michael Wyschogrod uses this language: “Hated on all sides by those who contest Israel’s election . . . expressing hatred for the God of Israel through the crucifixion of Israel’s body.”

Wyschogrod thought deeply about ways in which Judaism could understand the key beliefs of Christianity. He chose these words with intention: “the crucifixion of Israel’s body.” We see in Genesis 12 that God established a nation from Abraham in order to bless his creation that had gone astray. This could be seen as the overarching purpose of Israel’s election. But there have always been nations, tribes, and individuals that cannot bow to the will of God, who prefer to resist him by attempting to annihilate God’s priestly nation.

And yet, the Passover Haggadah reminds us that, though God wants us to overcome our enemies, the complete victory comes from God’s hand alone. In the Seder, year after year, we read, “For not only one enemy has risen up to destroy us, but in every generation do enemies rise up against us, seeking to destroy us. But the Holy One, praised be God, delivers us from their hands.”

Ezekiel Sees Grace Beyond the Danger

Ezekiel has an amazing eschatological vision of God’s great outpouring of grace upon the people of Israel to deliver us from our mortal enemies. Returning to last week’s haftarah reading, Ezekiel 36:16–38, we see a number of things about this grace.

• We see that God had been furious with Israel, mainly because of murder and idolatry, and, so, scattered them among the nations. (36:18–19)

• We see that by that dispersion, the name of God is profaned by the very fact that the people of Israel are not in their own God-given land. (36:20)

• We see that God is concerned about this, and intends to sanctify His own holy Name by gathering His people from all the nations and bringing them back to His land, that He has given them as an inheritance. (36:21–24) 

 Once God sanctifies his Name in the sight of all the nations of the world by bringing his people back, he does not stop there. Ezekiel’s vision is far-reaching.

In Danger No More

God is about to alter things so completely that his people will no longer be in the mortal danger they have suffered for so many centuries. He determines to sovereignly act so that he will never again have to “pour out his fury” (Ezek 36:18) on his people. Furthermore, they will not again know the violence of the nations: “Nor will I let you hear the taunts of the nations anymore, nor bear the rage of the peoples anymore…” (Ezek 36:15)

In fact, he will change all Israel from the inside. Sovereignly, by his own power.

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.  I will put my Spirit within you and cause you to walk in my statutes, and you will keep my judgments and do them. Then you shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers; you shall be my people, and I will be your God. (Ezek 36:26–28)

Never again to live in the dangerous shadow of chosenness. But to dwell in the presence of God in peace and safety.

Another way we sanctify the holy Name of Hashem is to stand in unity with our people as one. In these dark days of Israel’s suffering, let us continue to stand steadily in prayer for our people; for the war effort, for God to hear and respond to the increasingly loud and lying voices of antisemitism. But most of all, let us, like Moses, intercede for our people, God’s people (as Moses himself reminded God (“These are your people”), praying that he fulfill his promise to put his Spirit within the heart of our people with the prophetic outcome that still speaks to us from Ezekiel.

Honest Worship

Parashat Tzav, Leviticus 6:1–8:36

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Our portion this week includes the foundational command given by God to the priests to keep the fire on the altar before the tabernacle burning day and night (Lev 6:8–9). This command can be seen as a constant reminder of our God’s desire to be in communication with his people. He wants to be connected to his creation. As his created beings, it is vital for us to remember he is completely holy, perfect and clean. As humans we are not perfect. I believe we need to enter the presence of the Lord with an honest, open heart. God sees exactly who we are and knows our every thought. We can’t hide anything, so being honest in our worship is essential to presenting our offering as a sweet aroma. 

Let us also keep in mind that the fire would consume what the priests placed upon it. As the fire burned the offering, the smells were sweet and would waft toward the heavens until reaching the Throne of God. This beautiful picture of what a sacrificial offering produces is a learning tool for us today. Leviticus is a book rich with details of sacrifice and offerings. In contrast with previous books of the Torah, the people are not on a physical journey. They remain at a specific location for what turns out to be an important purpose.

Over the past few weeks, we read about the trials associated with Israel’s trek through the desert in the process of leaving behind their past in Egypt and beginning something new. Leviticus (Vayikra in Hebrew) builds upon what was established in Exodus. At first read it may pose more questions than it answers. Much like the journey through the desert the Israelites experienced, Leviticus takes us on a journey through our own metaphorical desert to learn how to find a stronger relationship with our God through intimate sacrifice. Some of us, perhaps, will find God’s love for the first time. Others will journey to find holiness as the only way to God and to learn how God is all holy and only receives holiness.

Living life on planet Earth in 2024 is radically different than it was back at the foot of Mount Sinai. The constant is that the God they honored through meticulous service is the same God we are called to honor today.

In Genesis 8:15–21, Noah was the first to build an altar and offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to his God for sparing the lives of his family and the animals through the days of the horrific rainstorm. God had given Noah instructions to follow prior to the rains arriving, detailed instructions to build the Ark of safety. Noah showed his love and trust for God by following the instructions and building the Ark. When the rain stopped and the waters subsided, the family exited the Ark. Genesis 8 clearly states Noah offered the best he had in clean animals and birds as a sacrifice showing his heart of thankfulness. The pleasant aroma of sacrifice reached the heavens to be enjoyed by God.

Tzav is our reminder to continue to practice sacrificial worship in our lives today. How do we do this? Let’s take a moment to reflect on two questions. First, what is considered a sacrifice today? And second, where is the altar? 

Today, we don’t have the Temple as in the days of the prophets, and we don’t have a physical place we know as the Holy of Holies. We can’t just step outside of our homes and build an altar that we keep a literal fire on day and night as the priests did in the days of Moses. There are laws to prevent us from searching around our neighborhoods for clean animals or birds. Needless to say, our modern day barbecue grills are not exactly designed for constant readiness. 

After many years of processing, I like to think of my heart’s intent as the fire always ready to carry the sacrificial aroma of my living sacrifice to the Throne of God. My life is the altar upon which the sacrifice is placed. Everything I do and everything I say and think regarding holiness, prayer, serving, sharing the Good News of the Scriptures, and just living are my sacrifices.

Choosing to consistently and intentionally live a life that honors the God of the Torah, in my understanding, is acceptable sacrifice in our modern-day world. We must aim to keep our heart fire hot by choosing to love and live in ways that bring honor to the God of our forefathers. Perhaps it is easier to say living selflessly should be our goal.

Noah’s altar of sacrifice was the picture of newness after the earth had been cleansed. The priestly rituals were designed to keep the tent of meeting pure and holy. Now we live in the days after Yeshua sacrificed all for everyone to have unlimited access to God. The dwelling of God’s heavenly place continues to be open to us through the Ruach.  

What is available to us today is beyond my understanding. We should strive to remember God is holy and his Ruach dwells within each of us who trust in him. “Or don’t you know that your body is a temple of the Ruach ha-Kodesh who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own? For you were bought with a price. Therefore glorify God in your body” (1 Cor 6:19–20).

Trusting God to provide, trusting God to lead, and waiting patiently during challenging times is our sacrifice of worship. In Noah’s day God provided the wisdom needed to face uncertain times. He still does today.

Let us not forget the words of Leviticus 6:6: “Fire is to be kept burning on the altar continuously —it must not go out.” Honest living for God is honest worship.

 Honest worship will send a sweet aroma of sacrifice that will reach our God and bring him honor.

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

The Lord Calls Us by Name

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1–5:26

Dr. Daniel Nessim, Kehilat Tsion, Vancouver, BC

Vayikra. Being the first word of the book as well as the first word of the first reading of the first parasha of Leviticus, that is what our parasha is called: Vayikra, or in English, “And he called.”

Each of us was given a name shortly after birth and, for most of us, we are still called by that name. When I hear my name, it commands my attention. It identifies me. It also means that the person who has called me knows my name, even if just from a computer readout.

Vayikra is the same term used when God called Moses from out of the burning bush. On that occasion he used Moses’ name not once, but twice (“Moses, Moses!” Exodus 3:4). It meant that he knew who Moses was.

Unlike that first encounter in the wilderness of Midian, this time the call to Moses was accompanied by two other verbs: “and he spoke” and “and he said.” The time frame has changed. Since the first meeting, Moses had led Israel out of Egypt, ascended to the Mountain of Sinai, not once but twice, and was now in the practice of regularly meeting God face-to-face in the Tent of Meeting. Perhaps here we have a suggestion of the more extended instruction that Moses now received from the Almighty. Now, there is more than just calling, but also speaking and saying.

The message that Moses is about to hear is indeed an extended one, and one full of nuances that typically baffle the modern reader. The message of Vayikra is not one where the “One Who Is” makes himself known to Moses alone, but to all the Children of Israel, who by covenant are in permanent relationship to him.

This message comes after Bereishit (Genesis), which can be likened to the basis that the Tent –the place where man could relate with God – was built upon. Further, this message comes after Shemot (Exodus) in which the construction of that Tent is commissioned, and the detailed description of that dwelling place of God is recorded. With that Tent having been assembled, Vayikra begins with carefully arranged details as to what happens in that Place that has been built for meeting God. This is the Ohel Moed – the Tent of Meeting, and what will happen here is the meeting of man with the ineffable.

Now that the Ohel Moed has been built, God makes it clear that his instructions proceed from the Tent, as the Hebrew indicates. מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד. The Lord did not speak to Moses in the Tent, but from it. This has the sense of a decree from a distance. Not a great distance, but a notable one. Whereas Moses usually met with God face-to-face, as we have noted, here there is a degree of separation. Just as in the various terms given to God’s address to Moses (calling, speaking, saying), this adds to the moment of what is about to be taught.

To this day, the teachings of Vayikra (both the parasha and the book) are central to our people. While the sacrificial system ceased with the destruction of the Holy Temple, we continue to pray in the Amidah, “Be favorable, Lord our God, with your people Israel, and turn to their prayers, and restore the service to the inner Sanctuary of your house, and the offering fires of Israel.” Is it the shedding of the sacrificial blood that is yearned for? Rather, it is the restoration of a way of relating to God “as of old.”

God calls to Moses as to a person in relationship with him. He speaks from a Tent that is built so that the Israelites might maintain their relationship with him. The Tent of Meeting. It is in that context that the multitude of sacrifices of different types make sense. These sacrifices were to be a means by which God and Israel could maintain their relationship.

In one sense, all relationships require acts that maintain them. It is something that we all know. Within our relationships there is a constant give and take. Whether by word or deed – even a smile – our relationships are helped and sustained by our gifts to one another. In Vayikra, after calling Moses by name, the Lord then gives detailed instruction as to what those gifts are to be, and how Israel is to maintain their relationship with him.

For some who look in from the outside it is more than easy to conflate all of the sacrifices and the sacrificial system under the concept of atonement. No doubt we are grateful for the essential atonement that has been provided by the self-sacrifice of Messiah Yeshua. In light of that great gift we might miss that Vayikra shows that our relationship with the Creator involves more than that alone. The Lord calls us into a relationship that involves far more than the atonement for our sins which makes it possible. He calls us by name. He asks us to relate to him.

Consider the offerings in this parasha alone. There are burnt offerings that can be offered by any Israelite, according to their ability to afford different kinds of sacrificial animals. These are a pleasing aroma to the Lord. There are grain offerings to the Lord, most of which is to provide food for the priests. Without honey or leaven but always with salt (thus we salt our challah every Shabbat), these are a holy part of the Lord’s food offerings. There are peace offerings, again according to their affordability to the worshiper. These too are for a pleasing aroma to the Lord. There are offerings for unintentional sins, differently specified for priests, all the congregation of Israel, or the individual. These make for atonement, as do the offerings for those who fail to testify to a matter when required to. Lastly, our parasha addresses unintentional breaches of faith to be dealt with via a guilt offering. Accordingly the result of the guilt offering is not only atonement, but forgiveness.

In Psalm 50:13, as Midrash Rabbah notes, the Lord asks, “Do I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats?” Implicit is the message that he is far more interested in the soul of the worshiper than the actual sacrifice. Otherwise, the size of the sacrifice would matter, but it does not. The One who spoke and the world came into being speaks to us today. He desires us to hear his voice. He desires to be in relationship with us.

Vayikra reminds us of the value of offerings that are a pleasing aroma to the Lord, the One who desires to be in relationship with his people and us as individuals. The one who reached out to Moses by name in order to teach Israel how we might maintain our relationship with him. Sacrifices are no longer offered in Jerusalem, but it is certain that he continues to desire relationship with us.

Throughout the Torah and Brit Hadasha, our relationship with God is affected by our relationships with others. As with the Lord, our human relationships need gifts and offerings to thrive. Perhaps a smile for a brother or sister. Perhaps material help, or a kind deed. The Torah acknowledges that many sins are unintentional. Extending forgiveness to those who sin against us can open a door to the freedom of knowing that we, too, have a path to forgiveness for our transgressions.  

The Future Is Now: Hanna-Barbera and the Real Magic Kingdom

Image: Hanna-Barbera Studios

Parashat Pekudei, Exodus 38:21-40:38

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

When I was a boy in the 60’s my two favorite cartoons were the popular shows The Flintstones and The Jetsons. While Hanna-Barbera Studios produced both, the Flintstones were “the modern stone-age family” while the Jetsons were the “space-age” family of the future. Ironically, though, both families were tongue-in-cheek reflections of 1960’s lifestyle and values.

The Flintstones had all of the 60’s lifestyle expectations, with Stone Age veneers. Their stone-wheel cars would roll up to the drive-in restaurant so they could order a “bronto-burger.” Their humble abode in the Town of Bedrock resembled the low-cost post WWII housing which accompanied the suburban sprawl of the 50’s and 60’s. Even their appliances, such as garbage disposals and hairdryers, ran on the power of prehistoric looking animals. The Jetsons, on the other hand, had flying cars, excessive gadgetry, and robotic servants to help ease their life in cloud scraping hi-rise apartments. Almost prophetically every time-saving convenience had a screen accompanied by robotic voices that sounded like alien invaders in 60’s sci-fi movies. 

Just like the Flintstones, the Jetsons sported 60’s style hairdos and reflected the aspirations and mores of the decade. The women did not work, and the men did everything possible to avoid work. Though the Flintstones represented the blue-collar family and the Jetsons the white-collar family, their mode of operation and goals were identical. So, is there a lesson that can be gleaned by observing the relationship between the Flintstones and the Jetsons? I think there is, and I believe it to be profound. When we speak of what was or what can be, we can only reflect on what we have already known and have experienced. We reconstruct the past and reframe the future based upon our experience of the present.

Could this be the reason that Hashem asked Israel to erect the Mishkan in the wilderness? Did the Creator want Israel to understand what it meant to be truly creative? Is it just possible that he was teaching them precisely what it meant to be co-creators, junior partners in the slow and arduous process of completing the design of creation? Is this why the better part of the second half of Shemot contains instruction and narrative related to the building of the Mishkan? Well, let’s consider this voluminous material.

First, I think it is worth exploring the heptadic structure (structures based upon matrixes of sevens) of the Mishkan accounts. This structure points to the connection between the Mishkan and the order and process by which Hashem created the world. After six days of preparation, Moses enters the cloud that contains the divine presence on Sinai (Exod 24:16). Moses is then given the instructions from the Creator concerning the specifics of the Mishkan construction in seven separate speeches, each distinguished by the formulaic introduction “Hashem spoke to Moses,” or “Hashem said to Moshe” (Exod 25:1; 30:11, 17, 22, 34; 31:1, 12). The seventh speech culminates with God’s instructions for Shabbat observance (31:12–17), punctuated by the divine decree of death for those who violate it.

The seventh speech is followed by the account of the Golden Calf and the ensuing chaos in Israel’s camp, which brings death and division in the ranks. After Moses pleads with God for the people (Exodus 33), the tablets of the covenant are reissued (Exodus 34). The actual building of the Mishkan begins in Exodus 35, initiated by a restatement of the Shabbat commands (35:2–3). The account of the Mishkan building continues through Exodus 40, with continual references to the work being done, “as Hashem had commanded Moshe.” This phrase is most prominent in the last chapter of the account, where it is repeated seven times. The heptadic structure is not only a literary clue that the Mishkan belongs to a covenant of re-creation, but it was also part of a sacred drama that Israel performed each day, thereby making God’s purposes for them part of their DNA. By acting out a new present reality, Israel begins the process of reconstructing the perfect past and reshaping a bright future. A future where they see themselves as a Kingdom of Priests committed to recapturing Hashem’s design for creation.

If failed reliance upon the Creator allowed chaos to ensue and wreak havoc upon the fragile creative order, then obedience to the Creator will inevitably restore the creation to its intended well-being and Shalom. When Israel builds the Mishkan according to the covenantal design of God, the glory of Hashem, which resided in a cloud outside of Israel’s camp, takes residence in the Mishkan following its completion. So, we learn that when we participate in Gemmar Tikkun, the final repair, the Light of Hashem will fill all of the earth.

He built his sanctuary like the heights,

like the earth that he established forever. (Psalm 78:69 TLV)

 We are given a prophetic glimpse into the glorious future through the work, sacrifice, and ascension of Messiah Yeshua, who transcends the past, present and future.

 For Messiah did not enter Holies made with hands—counterparts of the true things—but into heaven itself, now to appear in God’s presence on our behalf. (Heb 9:24 TLV)

The Mishkan does more than complete the cosmic design; it effectively reclaims creational intentions from the disruptive forces of chaos and human sin and re-establishes the Creator’s primordial hopes. Isn’t it amazing what you can learn from cartoons!