Bless is More

Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21–7:89

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

This week’s parasha contains one of only two prescribed blessings in all of Torah, the Birkat Kohanim.  

Adonai bless you and keep you!
Adonai make His face to shine on you and be gracious to you!
Adonai turn His face toward you and grant you shalom! (Numbers 6:22–26 TLV) 

This blessing is so familiar to us; it is part of the morning shacharit, and is traditionally chanted by the Kohanim, descendants of the priestly line, on Yom Kippur. Parents also say it over children on Erev Shabbat. I find it so meaningful that at Congregation Shuvah Yisrael it is our custom to have a Kohen deliver this blessing every Shabbat at the end of mussaf.  

This blessing is a cleverly crafted gem, which becomes particularly evident when it’s studied in Hebrew. The blessing contains an increasing pattern of words on each line (three, five, seven) and an increasing pattern of both consonants (fifteen, twenty, twenty-five), and syllables (twelve, fourteen, sixteen). The very wording therefore creates a sense of meter, order, climax, and completion.  

What is ultimately apparent in the recitation of this blessing is that the Kohen serves an appointed and vital, yet limited role. He is not a magician generating magic, but a channel for blessing to pass through on the way from the Holy Blessing One to the Jewish people. For that reason, each line begins by mentioning God as the active agent, and the last line explicitly states the words of Hashem, “In this way they are to place My Name over Bnei-Yisrael, and so I will bless them” (Num 6:27). 

Interestingly the entire blessing is phrased in the singular, an unusual phenomenon in Torah, which generally speaks to Israel in communal language. So why this anomaly? The simplest answer is that Torah does not conceive of any one person to be holy in a way that is different from the holiness of any other human being. At the same time, the priestly blessing reminds us of the sanctity of all humanity, and the awesome otherness of the God of Israel. This is of course an answer that would satisfy the universalistic spirit of this age. It sounds great, but is it true? In fact, Torah makes a point of establishing unique roles not only for Israel as a whole, but within Israel. The entire book of Vayikra (Leviticus) establishes the role of the sons of Aaron as priests, as does this blessing itself. And the blessing follows the precise details of Nazarite dedication, a path to a greater exhibition of holy behavior and commitment to Hashem. Torah establishes specific leadership positions, and much of the book of Bemidbar exposes the folly of transgressing godly leadership. In fact, this very idea is expressed by the villainous Korach when he incites mutiny against Moses by querying, “Aren’t all of Israel holy?” Holy yes, but all the same . . . ? I don’t think so.  

I think there is a more plausible explanation, that it is not always possible or even wise to extend the same blessing to everyone uniformly. For the farmer, rain may be an anxiously awaited blessing, but for a beach port vacationer, not so much. Wealth, good looks, or extraordinary talent might be tremendous gifts for one person, yet a tremendous burden for another. The fact is that only the Designer of all creation and the Endower of all gifts and resources knows what blessing is most appropriate for whom. Therefore, he instructs the kohanim to bless the people in the singular; so that each person might receive the blessing that is most appropriate for him or her. 

To this effect Rashi comments on the first verse of the Birkat Kohanim, “May God bless you and safeguard you” (6:24), by saying that we will be blessed with wealth and talent and guarded from dangers. Though the order may seem incorrect, and an individual might need to be protected before he or she is blessed, not all dangers are physical and external. A person who is given much wealth, for instance, may find that the money is their downfall. The Kohen’s blessing asks, therefore, that we be blessed with much wealth and safeguarded against its evil effects. Isn’t this what Yeshua meant when he taught us to pray, “Grant us our daily bread and lead us not into temptation”? I often pray for my children that they should never want for that which they need, but never have so much that they would enter perdition as a result.  

The second section of the blessing refers to M’ohr Torah, the light or illumination of Torah. May God enlighten you with the wondrous wisdom of Torah. Having the blessing of prosperity, we can go beyond the elementary requirements of survival. 

Finally, the third part of the blessing might express Hashem’s unconditional capacity to forgive. Again, Rashi explains this prayer stating, “May He suppress His anger toward you.” This means that by His countenance being upon you, God will show each of His people special consideration even if they are sinful. Therefore, when the Holy Blessing One places His gentle gaze upon us, we can lift our heads even when we are unworthy. 

This blessing is more than an ancient link to our tradition; it is an ongoing instruction to rely upon the beneficence of God. On exhibit in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem are artifacts from the excavation of a burial plot from the end of the First Temple period.  Among the exhibit is a small thin silver plaque the size of a thumb. Inscribed on it in Hebrew is the Birkat Kohanim. An observant Jew wore the same prayer that we are blessed with each week some 2600 years ago! We are blessed with the same prayers that have been echoed through countless generations.  

Much in human history changes; our customs, styles and cultures swell and shift radically. But there are three constants:

1)      The human heart retains many of the same needs, urges, and concerns throughout time.

2)      The God of Israel has not changed or faltered despite our changing perceptions of the divine.

3)      The covenant with Israel is still the tie that binds all of humanity to the God who gives us His good name – the Greatest Blessing of All!

This commentary was originally posted June 2020.

With Brotherly Affection

Parashat Bamidbar, Number 1:1–4:20

Matt Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Bring the tribe of Levi near, and set them before Aaron the priest, that they may minister to him. They shall keep guard over him and over the whole congregation before the tent of meeting, as they minister at the tabernacle. They shall guard all the furnishings of the tent of meeting, and keep guard over the people of Israel as they minister at the tabernacle. And you shall give the Levites to Aaron and his sons; they are wholly given to him from among the people of Israel.” Numbers 3:5–9

In this week’s portion, we see the emergence of a symbiotic relationship between the house of Aaron and the rest of the tribe of Levi. With Aaron and his sons appointed to lead the priesthood as High Priests, the rest of the tribe of Levi is assigned the task of ministering to Aaron and his sons.

The translation of the Hebrew v’shertu / “they may minister” (3:6) is a good interpretation and, like so much in our native language, it evokes multiple layers in the mind’s eye. In particular, this reading suggests a subservient “to wait upon,” like that of a servant waiting upon his master, and in parallel “to serve” by way of strengthening or nourishment, as a nurse or doctor might strengthen and nourish their patients.

In one form, the server is subservient; in the other form, the server is ascendant.

One of the pitfalls common to leadership is the pride of self-reliance. While it is good for God’s people to be confident and self-assertive, it is just as critical that we remember that we need each other to fulfill the destiny of national salvation.

Returning to the passage, we see how this symbiotic relationship displayed Aaron’s responsibility as leader and as a consequence, his need to be ministered to by those around him. Likewise, also the priesthood had the right to expect leadership from Aaron and the corresponding responsibility for them to minister to Aaron and his sons.

To receive ministry is to encourage spiritual humility; it is a buffer against the spiritual pride of self-reliance. It encourages spiritual humility when we embrace the truth that even the strongest amongst us need to be ministered to. We must not lose sight that those who minister unto us, also need to be ministered unto.

There is a symbiotic relationship between the leader and their followers. As much as the followers look to the leader for strength, the leader must learn to find strength from those who are following him or her. Together in harmony and mutual submission, we strengthen each other.

We see this exemplified in the life of our Lord. Though Yeshua was the embodiment of the divine, yet he too needed to be ministered to in order to be strengthened and encouraged.

Then Yeshua said to him, “Be gone, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God and him only shall you serve.’” Then the devil left him, and behold, angels came and were ministering to him. (Matt 4:10–11 )

Our Lord demonstrates to us that he is not immune to human frailty. He too needed to be ministered to. Although in this passage he received strength from angels, in later stories he will be ministered to by his many friends. Mary, Martha and Lazarus come to mind. We see as a matter of regular spiritual discipline that the Lord received ministry from both angels and those who followed him. Much as God resting on the Shabbat serves as an example to us to receive the Shabbat rest, so also Yeshua’s receiving of ministry serves as an example to us to receive ministry from our family of faith.

This is a word of encouragement to both our leaders and lay folk in our communities. To our leaders, do not fall into the trap of self-reliance. While we need our leaders to be strong, understand that in your times of frailty the strength of the community is imperative for your spiritual walk.

To our lay members, do not underestimate the power of a word of encouragement, or a kind mitzvah towards your leadership. As much as you need your leaders to show the way forward, the leaders also need you for moments of respite and recovery.

Our forefather Paul the apostle encourages us to behave towards one another in this way:

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. (Rom 12:9–10)

May the bonds of brotherly affection fill our communities as we learn to lean on one another. Shabbat shalom!

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

Our apologies: an audio version is not available this week.

Be an Agent of Hope

Parashat Bechukotai, Leviticus 26:3–27:34

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Preparing this drash has taken me on a journey through my own faith walk. While processing the challenging part of this week’s reading known as the Tochechah (“Reproach” or “Rebuke,” Lev 26:14–43), I realized how prayerful self-examination holds the potential to lead us to a deeper connection with hope.

When we read through this portion we are initially made aware of the importance of obedience and how it has an effect on our future. In the Tochechah, we quickly learn how Israel’s failure to follow God’s laws and keep his commands has consequences. History tells us these consequences can be deadly. Thankfully, this dark section is immediately followed by a wonderful reminder of hope in 26:44-45.

Yet for all that, when they are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them, nor will I hate them into utter destruction, and break My covenant with them, for I am Adonai their God. But for their sake I will remember the covenant of their ancestors, whom I brought out of the land of Egypt in the sight of the nations, that I might be their God. I am Adonai.

In my early walk of faith, life seemed simple—do good and be obedient and it will be okay. It didn’t take long for me, however, to realize life on earth is not at all simple. It was during that time I began to read scripture not just for face value, but to understand the underlying meaning. This shift initiated lessons that were challenging but valuable. It wasn’t too long before my prayers shifted from what I needed to prayers for understanding what my Creator desired of me.  I wanted to live out what he had designed me to do.

The day was May 25; the year was 2005. Memorial Day celebrations in the USA were just around the corner. The day was clear and the morning sun was shining brightly in the eastern sky, bringing with it a warmth that felt like a loving hug. I was sitting at my desk looking out the large window onto my peaceful street. Thoughts were flooding my head as I prepared my fingers to be the vehicle that brought my thoughts to the keyboard and into words. My thoughts of love, mercy, grace, and hope were then interrupted by the harsh clanging sound of the doorbell.

Answering the door that day changed my life forever. God’s lesson plan was nothing I could have predicted, and my only preparation was the life I had lived leading up to that day. My childhood, my choice to surrender my life to Messiah, and every moment led me to this time.

On the other side of my door were two young soldiers, one male and one female. They were in dress greens with maroon head covers. Let me explain: both my son and my son-in-law were serving in the military. The maroon head covers told me these two soldiers were attached to an airborne unit. Immediately my mind went to thoughts of my son, since his assignment was with the 82nd Airborne Unit. Confusion set in and I asked myself what could possibly have happened that would cause these soldiers to be at my door? It was as if my whole body was moving in slow motion, as if time had stopped.

The day suddenly took a sharp detour. One moment I was preparing a lesson on living a life filled with the hope we have in Messiah and the promises of blessings that are ours. The next moment the messengers were delivering their news. One soldier was a chaplain from Ft. Liberty (then known as Ft. Bragg) and the other was his driver. 

The message they were tasked to deliver was harsh. With it came a lesson for my entire family. Life has dark days, and we must choose how to proceed. The soldiers stood straight and tall asking repeatedly for my daughter. My thoughts were not of relief. I knew the message was dire and her future would be forever changed. 

The Army only sends soldiers to a family member’s door to deliver a death notification. Our son-in-law sacrificed his life that day carrying out a mission in Iraq. My heart was broken for my young daughter, and for my son-in-law’s family. Anger could have followed the brokenness that invaded my soul, and that anger could have slipped into hatred, utterly disabling me from providing loving support for my daughter.  

Thankfully, I was able to press on in love, extending grace and mercy, and being an agent of hope in this time of despair.

Throughout history, many people have been faced with dire circumstances. Elie Wiesel was clearly an agent of hope in a time when hope was scarce. He made many statements on the value and importance of hope, including this:

One must wager on the future. I believe it is possible, in spite of everything, to believe in friendship in a world without friendship, and even to believe in God in a world where there has been an eclipse of God’s face. . . . We must not give in to cynicism. To save the life of a single child, no effort is too much. . . . To defeat injustice and misfortune, if only for one instant for a single victim, is to invent a new reason to hope. 

It is now nineteen years since we lost our son-in-law, and my choice to hold on to hope has birthed blessings. The dark night dissipated; the sun eventually rose brightly bringing a new day.  

Ha Tikvah (the hope) will only fade if we allow it to. I encourage you to be an agent of hope. Your life will dispel the darkness.                            

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

Sooner or Later, Jubilee is Coming

Parashat Behar, Leviticus 25:1–26:2

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

Have you ever wished that you could start over? That you could be, as in the words of Dylan’s immortal song, “forever young”—going back to your earliest years of life, able to erase all your mistakes, cancel all your debts, and undo all your sins? In the dark time we’re living through right now, we might be especially drawn to the idea of a new, fresh beginning.

Such thinking may sound naïve and wishful, but it was a reality in the Torah legislation of the Jubilee recounted in Parashat Behar. From one Jubilee to the next, the Israelites counted forty-nine years—seven sevens of years. Seven, the number of perfection, was itself perfected. Then came the fiftieth year, in which Moses instructed the people to “proclaim liberty throughout all the land,” so that “you shall return, each man to his holding and you shall return each man to his family” (25:10). The liberty of Jubilee restores to its original owners any land holding that had been sold, and to his family any Israelite who had sold himself into slavery. Jubilee returns Israel to the original order that the Lord intended for it, the order that he will restore forever in the age to come. Thus, it is a great enactment, both of justice and of the prophetic future.

The count of forty-nine years between one Jubilee and the next reminds us of the count of forty-nine days leading up to Shavuot, the Counting of the Omer, as outlined in our previous parasha (Lev 23:15–21), in which we’re currently engaged. There we see that Shavuot, like all of the festivals, anticipates the conditions of the age to come. The laws of Shavuot provide a share of the harvest to all who live in Israel, anticipating the restored justice of the age to come.

Even more than Shavuot and the rest of the festivals of Leviticus 23, Jubilee provides a foretaste of “the day that will be all Shabbat, and rest for everlasting life” (Soncino Talmud, Tamid 33b).

As the year of restoration in Israel, Jubilee shapes the messianic hope of restoration described in the Scriptures and beyond. Thus, Ezekiel employs Jubilee language to rebuke the false shepherds of Israel. They have not done for Israel what the Jubilee is designed to do: “The weak you have not strengthened, nor have you healed those who were sick, nor bound up the broken, nor brought back what was driven away, nor sought what was lost; but with force and cruelty you have ruled them” (34:4).

Ezekiel proclaims that the Lord intends the liberty of the year of Jubilee for all who are broken and estranged. He promises that the day will come when he himself will accomplish what the shepherds of Israel have failed to do. “I will feed my flock, and I will make them lie down. I will seek what was lost and bring back what was driven away, bind up the broken and strengthen what was sick; but I will destroy the fat and the strong, and feed them in judgment” (34:15–16).

The hope of Jubilee restoration echoes through the prophets and into the prayers of Israel. In the second blessing of the Amidah, the traditional series of daily blessings, we address the Lord as the One who “sustains the living with kindness, resuscitates the dead with abundant mercy, supports the fallen, heals the sick, releases the confined, and maintains His faith to those asleep in the dust” (Artscroll Siddur 101).

The accounts of the coming of Messiah also echo this hope. When Yochanan the Immerser was bound in prison, he sent two of his disciples to ask Yeshua, “Are you the Coming One, or do we look for another?” Yeshua answered in the language of Jubilee. The restoration of the age to come had already broken into this age, so Yochanan should know who Yeshua was. “Go and tell Yochanan the things that you hear and see: The blind see and the lame walk; the lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear; the dead are raised up and the poor have good news proclaimed to them. And blessed is he who is not offended because of me” (Matt 11:2–6).

Why would one be offended by Yeshua? Because he claims to be Messiah at a time when the Jubilee is not fully established. Yochanan remains imprisoned. Roman armies occupy the land of Israel. But Yeshua shows that the Jubilee has indeed begun with his arrival in Israel, and so will inevitably be fulfilled. In the meantime, do not be offended, but maintain hope.

Once during a discussion at my home congregation’s interfaith couples meeting, one of the non-Messianic Jewish men said, “OK, Yeshua is a great guy. I’ll even accept that he is the greatest guy, but Messiah—who knows? Besides, who needs a Messiah?”

I could have told my friend that I needed a Messiah and Yeshua proved himself as Messiah to me . . . and that if you ever figure out that you need a Messiah, Yeshua will be there for you too. Instead, I focused on the corporate aspect. You may not realize that you need a Messiah, but you cannot deny that this world does. Just look at the suffering, injustice, and oppression all around us. Yeshua embodies the hope of liberty, of a return to God’s order and justice that is rooted in the Torah and reflected throughout our Scriptures and prayers. Yeshua has already launched a restoration that has had immeasurable impact on the world we live in, and is evidence of the redemption to come. My personal story of salvation is only a foretaste of the worldwide Jubilee that Messiah will bring.

Jubilee decrees that each one is to return to his family and to his holding. In our day of isolation and estrangement, this promise is especially significant. In the final chapters of Leviticus, God provides a way of return to himself which anticipates the great restoration that is the underlying theme of all the books of Torah. This return includes restoration of families and friendships that may have been damaged, and restoration to the inheritance of Scripture and the tradition that flows from it. Those who follow Messiah Yeshua believe that he is the one who brings about this return. Therefore, we refuse to account our personal Jubilee complete apart from the Jubilee for all Israel, which ultimately is the Jubilee that restores all humanity.

Jubilee must be proclaimed. Moses says, “You shall sound the shofar, and you shall proclaim liberty” (Lev 25:9–10, paraphrased). As we await the Jubilee to come, may we proclaim the Jubilee that is already here in Messiah Yeshua, so that many in Israel and beyond may return to their families and their holdings, and to the God who is calling them back.

Adapted from Creation to Completion, Messianic Jewish Publishers, 2006.

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.