Love in Strength: the Unique Hesed of Abraham

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1–22:24

David Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

The Lord appeared to him by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. Looking up, he saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, he said, “My lords, if it please you, do not go on past your servant. Let a little water be brought; bathe your feet and recline under the tree… (Gen 18:1-4)

Our patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, stand as archetypes in our tradition. In the first blessing of the Amidah, Hashem is called not the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—but rather, the “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob.” From this we learn that each of them had a unique, deeply individual relationship with God. (This also tells us something about relationships in general: they resist abstraction and generalization, and are necessarily dialectic, requiring each party to see, and respond to, the other.)

In our tradition, each patriarch is also associated with a particular trait (middah, plural middot). The words of the prophet Micah, “You will keep faith to Jacob, loyalty to Abraham” (Mic 7:20 JPS) can also be translated, “You will give truth to Jacob, ḥesed (kindness, love) to Abraham.” Between this verse and a close reading of the text, our sages associated Abraham with ḥesed, Jacob with truth, and Isaac with fear (Gen 31:42), as in fear, or awe, of God. 

I leave ḥesed untranslated because it is notoriously difficult to translate. It can be translated “love,” but I’m partial to “generous, sustaining benevolence,” per Alan Morinis (Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar). It stands at the intersection of generosity, selflessness, and love for the other. In our parasha this trait of Abraham shows up in the very first verse (Gen 18:1), where Rashi suggests that God sends the three angels out of kindness, as Abraham was grieved that there were no travelers for whom he could provide hospitality.

The text clearly emphasizes Abraham’s expansive capacity for hospitality in describing how he responds to these strangers who appear at his tent. Not only is he recovering from his recent circumcision (Gen 17:22–27), but according to one reading of these verses (attested by Rashi and others), while he is speaking with God who has appeared to him in verse 1, he essentially says to God, “Please hold” (“do not go on past your servant”) while I attend to these three travelers! He literally runs to greet them and persuade them to join him and proceeds to prepare a meal for them. He spares no expense for these random strangers who happen by.

Based on this and other events in Abraham’s life, the sages see him as a paragon of love and inclusion. He brought people from the surrounding societies in Haran and Canaan close to the one God through his example and his generosity. His camp is something like an extended family unit made up of those who had attached themselves to him (see Rashi on Gen 12:5, for example), like a nomadic outpost of monotheism, a kind of proto-Israel. 

It is fitting that the first of the patriarchs, the one who God called into special relationship at the beginning of the story of redemption, was one who showed ḥesed. Ḥesed is the engine of relationship. Every minute of our lives we are sustained by it, as God gives us another breath, and allows the sun to shine on the earth. “Hodu l’Adonai ki tov,” the refrain goes, “Give thanks to Hashem for he is good.” Why? “Ki le’olam ḥasdo,” because his ḥesed is eternal! The Psalms say that the world was built on the foundation of ḥesed (Ps. 89:3). Receiving God’s ḥesed, and paying it forward, is a reasonable way to understand our very purpose in this world.

A superficial reading of Genesis might miss this trait of Abraham, since many of the key moments in the narrative don’t seem to emphasize his ḥesed at all. He sends away Lot, Hagar, and Ishmael, and is apparently willing to sacrifice his son. This makes sense, however, if understood from the perspective of mussar, especially as read by R. Eliyahu Dessler, an influential 20th-century mussar master and philosopher. As R. Dessler explains it (particularly in his essay “Our Forefathers’ Attributes,” Strive for Truth!, vol 5), because Abraham’s greatest middah was ḥesed, his many difficult tests came in other areas where he was comparatively weaker. 

It is no surprise that one who is a master of ḥesed will occasionally struggle to hold strong boundaries, or to show tough love. In fact, R. Dessler points out the tests in Abraham’s life tended to test his gevurah, or strength: fighting the four kings (Gen 14), certainly qualifies, but imagine how much strength and discipline were required to send away Hagar and Ishmael into the desert or place Isaac upon an altar as an offering? According to the midrash (Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer), sending Ishmael and Hagar away was the hardest test for Abraham until that point. And yet, when Sarah demands that he do so, Abraham embodies ḥesed by not challenging her, and gevurah by acting on it without delay, once God tells him to listen to her. Gevurah, this strength to create boundaries and act against one’s nature, is more associated with Isaac, and is, at its best, rooted in yirat Hashem, fear of God.

Mastering love, hospitality, and inclusion came more easily to Abraham than does gevurah, the inner strength (rooted in fear of God) that is needed to be tough and make hard choices. In other words, Abraham’s great righteousness came, not from his natural strength of giving ḥesed, but in how he was able to suppress that ḥesed by means of gevurah when necessary. 

So we see that the middah of ḥesed requires gevurah to be in proper balance. R. Dessler writes,

A person whose main quality is ḥesed is in danger that, in his yearning to give to others, he may spend more money than he can afford. Then, he will borrow from others and spend it in turn. Eventually it will be found that his excessive desire to do ḥesed was counterproductive [and] there is also the possibility that he will be “merciful to the cruel,” leading to “cruelty to the merciful.”

Similarly, an overly merciful parent failing to teach their child boundaries is showing no kindness at all. The angel who stays Abraham’s hand from sacrificing Isaac does not say, “Now I know that you love God…” but rather, “Now I know that you fear God” (22:12, JPS). On the other side, gevurah itself must be tempered with ḥesed lest one become inflexible and overly strict.

Somewhat ironically, the gevurah Abraham expressed in sending Ishmael away became ḥesed to Isaac, who could then be the heir he was supposed to be. The gevurah he expressed sending away Lot was in fact an act of ḥesed, allowing Lot not only to take the most fruitful land, but giving him space to preserve their relationship. And the gevurah required to place Isaac on the altar eventually resulted in blessing and life for the Jewish people.

By expressing gevurah and ḥesed together in relationship, we are actually practicing imitatio Dei, following in God’s footsteps, as it were. What Abraham demonstrates in these examples is called “ḥesed shebigevurah” (literally the love that is in strength), a sustaining love that is expressed in strength and restraint. It is this kind of ḥesed that Isaac showed as he held back and allowed Abraham to place him on the altar (22:9); that Yeshua embodied taking on the limitations of earthly life; and that the Omnipotent One shows in holding back and giving us space to live, even as imperfect vessels.

As we go through each day we will encounter many opportunities to love others by restraining ourselves, whether by setting boundaries, giving tough love, or by holding ourselves back to give others space. May God grant us the strength and wisdom to follow the example of our patriarchs and Yeshua our master; and may we have the gevurah to be masters of ḥesed; and thus lend our hands to the redemption of the world.

Note: the letter “H” with a dot beneath it is pronounced like the “ch” in “Bach.”

“Go forth” — a Risky Command

Parashat Lech L’cha, Genesis 12:1–17:27

Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Then Adonai said to Abram, “Get going from your land, and from your relatives, and from your father’s house, to a land that I will show you.” Genesis 12:1

God was directing Abram to leave all he knew for a future in an unknown land. Abram heard God. Trusting in what he heard, he responded by leaving his home, taking with him his wife and his nephew and their personal possessions.

Let’s take a look back at God’s call to Abram/Abraham. First, God commanded Abraham to walk away from his home and his father’s household and walk to an unknown land. He journeyed to Egypt for a temporary stay. Here he experienced a challenge with the locals. Abraham, being human, decided to take things upon himself and solve the problem by telling a half truth. I am fairly sure at this point of his journey he was fearful and reacted rather than being still and knowing God was right there with him. His journey continued, leaving Egypt, traveling through Jordan and beyond. In Genesis 14, Abraham fought the nations for control of the land. This portion of the journey had yet another challenge for Abraham to live by trusting God or by taking provision from the king in the way of war spoils. Abraham stood strong refusing all rewards. He walked out trusting in the wisdom he received from God. Abraham knew if he accepted the spoils it could be counted to the credit of the earthly king being a provider for Abraham and his clan. The trials along the way were lessons in living.

When Abraham allowed God to work by trusting in the promise, things went well. As we read, life wasn’t easy, but God was always present.

In the fall of 1973 as a High School Junior, I heard a presentation from a Hope College representative that impacted my life. The details of the message were not as important as the overall subject matter. The representative painted a picture of what could be mine in the way of education and preparation for a life filled with purpose. Attending Hope College would lead to the possibility of a challenging yet positive future. College was a direction I never thought was possible for me. This was a Lech L’cha moment in my life.

Deep within my soul, like Abraham, I knew God was prompting me. I was to leave everything and everyone and begin anew. I accepted the invitation and began something new. It was August 1974 and as a 17-year-old I packed up all my belongings in one suitcase and headed off to Hope College in Holland Michigan. New York State become a distant memory as I faced a solo journey into the unknown. I heard the still strong voice and obeyed. Looking back over the last 50 years I am thankful to have heard the still voice, which I now know for sure was the God who loves me, called me, and continues to equip me for his purpose.

My time at Hope College was the springboard to my faith journey that continues even today. Each day is new and God still faithfully works in, on, and through me to fulfill his purposes to bless others as I continue to surrender my life.

The word “hope” is defined as the anticipation of something not yet attained. I had many questions and few if any answers. I wanted to know my purpose. My journey led me to doors of opportunity. With each new day the choice to proceed was mine. Like Abraham, I knew about God and I believed in God. The journey God put before me gave me the opportunity to seek him in ways I could not have imagined. Throughout my time at Hope College I developed what I now know was the beginning of a life of trust in God. Initially I accepted him as my provision for strength, for love, and for the wisdom that opened doors to understanding. Getting to know more of God by trusting him was indeed the key to a peaceful life. During this time in my young life I had literally had nothing other than the promise of a future.

It is written in Hebrews 11:8, “He went out, not knowing where he was going.” The journey for Abraham was not easy; it was full of hardship and unknowns—much the same as any of us face today as we endeavor to live out a life a faith. The challenge we have is to trust in a God we cannot see with our physical eyes. Abraham’s life is a good example of an ordinary human being building his trust in God over his lifetime. It all began with taking a step into the unknown.

God’s promise to Abraham was to make him into a great nation, to bless him and make his name great so he could then be a blessing to other people (Gen 12:2–3). God was giving Abraham an opportunity to live a life that would bring about something that was most likely beyond Abraham’s scope of understanding. We can read how God faithfully delivered on the promise he made to Abraham. He had no children when he began his journey, and God blessed him in his old age.

The Hebrew term for commandment is mitzvah. It has an additional meaning that doesn’t come through in English. Mitzvah denotes a command that has a blessing attached to it. Hence Lech L’cha is more than a command. When we follow his command, God honors our actions with his blessing. I believe God enjoys our readiness to please him by our willingness to follow his ways without expectation of anything in return. 

Abraham was like us, a regular human. He wasn’t perfect; he stumbled. Remember when he called Sarah his sister to avoid trouble in Egypt? In Abraham’s moment of weakness, God’s mercy was present, protecting Sarah’s dignity and ending Abraham’s deception by sending plagues on Pharoah’s house (Gen 12:17).

Living in today’s world, we too face many unknowns. As people who profess a faith in the God of Abraham, trusting also in the Good News of Yeshua the Messiah, we to come face to face with challenges throughout our journeys. Like Abraham, we can respond to these trials or challenges as opportunities to build a closer relationship to God, to show our commitment to his ways by trusting in a God we can’t see with our eyes as we follow the path he has put before us.

Like Abraham we too must respond to God’s call. We read in Hebrews 11:6 “Now without faith it is impossible to please God. For the one who comes to God must believe that He exists and that He is a rewarder of those who seek Him.”

Allow me to encourage you to accept the challenge that is before you today. Trust in the peaceful inner voice and respond to it by taking the first step. Even if the step is risky, walk out of your comfort zone, just as Abraham did. God’s mercy is ever present today just as it was in the days of Abraham.

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

After the Flood

Parashat Noach, Genesis 6:9–11:32
Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

This week’s parasha confronts us with a subtle tension. The bulk of it is taken up by the story of Noah, the ark, and the great flood that covered the earth. It’s one of the best-known Torah stories within the general public, and it’s especially familiar to children. The tension is found in that it’s also among the most disturbing stories in the entire Bible. To a child, it’s an adventurous story about a boat full of animals. But for an adult, it’s an account of a time God decided, in his righteous judgment, to destroy every human being on the earth except for eight people—Noah and his family.

But once we get beyond this struggle, to the place where we can see, and even accept, that the perfect justice of God necessarily includes the destruction of that which is wicked, we are still left with lingering issues, things about the story that are at cross purposes with our understanding. Divine punishment of human wickedness is one thing, but what about animals? The scripture tells us that all human life was eliminated except for those who were on the ark. But the same can be said of the creatures of the land and of the air. Whichever were not collected onto the ark alongside Noah and his family also perished when the waters came. Animals do not sin. How is their destruction just?

The destruction of animal life on the earth was not a mere side effect of the flood, but part of the plan. The last few verses of Parashat B’reisheet put a fine point on this for us: “So the Lord said, ‘I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth, both man and beast, creeping thing and birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them’” (Gen 6:7). For what reason do animals suffer a penalty for human failure?

Sages throughout Jewish history have attempted to answer this question. In Genesis 6:12 we read that “all flesh had corrupted their way on the earth.” Midrash acknowledges that this refers to all life, both human and animal, and interprets this to mean that the animal kingdom had fallen into a similar state of corruption as humankind. Genesis 6:1–4 tells us of that human corruption, albeit briefly, relating that heavenly beings intermingled with human women, producing corrupt offspring and marring the created order. Of the animals, the Midrash relates, “They all corrupted their actions in the generation of the Flood – the dog would consort with the wolf, and the chicken would consort with the peacock” (Bereshit Rabbah 28:8). One account from the Talmud surmises that, once Noah had been tasked with preserving animals from a pure bloodline, the ark was supernaturally enabled to separate the pure from the impure:

He passed them before the ark. All animals that the ark accepted, it was known that a transgression had not been performed with them. And any animal that the ark did not accept, it was known that a transgression had been performed with it. (b.Sanhedrin 108b)

The tradition preserves an understanding that the broader created order followed after mankind in falling into transgression and suffered a similar consequence. The inspired text of the biblical authors affirms this, showing us that by looking to human failings, we can see why animals naturally had to pay a cost. From the beginning, mankind was tasked with maintaining the created order, with God giving them “dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth” (Gen 1:26), and placing Adam in the Garden of Eden in order to “tend and keep it” (2:15). But when Adam and Eve sinned, their fall impacted more than just their own fortunes and those of their descendants. Animals are also described as bearing a curse from these actions (3:14) and, beyond that, even the very ground itself (3:17–19).

While these accounts might seem mysterious, and some of the traditional interpretations strange, we can see their core truths reflected in mankind’s leadership of the created world in our own present day, and, sadly, we can witness creation paying the cost for our own fallen natures. Through no sin of their own, species die out at an increasing rate as a consequence of human expansion. And natural areas and resources become polluted by our activities, sometimes to points beyond recovery. As fallen creatures in a fallen world, our dominion over the natural world little resembles the “tending and keeping” that we were originally created for.

But while the flood narrative is bleak, it contains hope: although God destroyed, he also saved. And, when it comes to the animals, God was far more generous with them than he was with us, preserving a large number of creatures alongside Noah’s small family. And God’s generous provision hardly ends there.

Writing to the Romans, Paul ruminates on the costs of sin borne by creation, as well as the restoration that awaits us through the return of our Messiah:

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. . . . For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. (Rom 8:18, 20–21)

Yeshua’s return and earthly reign will bring rest and deliverance not only for God’s human children, but also for the entire created order. The prophet Isaiah looks forward into this time of peace for man and beast. It’s a gentle but needful reminder of the big picture, putting all things into perspective—even God’s wrath:

The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb,
The leopard shall lie down with the young goat,
The calf and the young lion and the fatling together;
And a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze;
Their young ones shall lie down together;
And the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play by the cobra’s hole,
And the weaned child shall put his hand in the viper’s den.
They shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain,
For the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord
As the waters cover the sea. (Isa 11:6–9)

In God’s pursuit of justice, some will be brought low, and others lifted up, but in the end, in the fullness of time, all of creation will be made whole once more.

 All scripture quotations taken from NKJV.

Fully Alive in 5785

Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1–6:8

by Dr Jeffrey Seif, Executive Director, UMJC

In his 2022 album “Only the Strong Survive,” Bruce Springsteen remade Tyrone Davis’ song “Turn Back the Hands of Time.” We can’t turn back time, of course. We can lose a job and find a new one; we can lose a love and find a new one, as well. Once time is gone, however, it’s unrecoverable. Though we can’t turn back the hands of time, we can—and do—revisit time by rolling the Torah scroll back and recycling the stories noted therein. This we do this every year around this time: on Simchat Torah. And so we begin again . . .

Parashat B’reisheet contains a general creation account in 1:1–32 which offers a telling of Adam’s creation in vv. 26–28. His name derives from adamah (Hebrew for “earth”), the substance from which he was said to have been fabricated in 2:7. Humankind’s creation account is further developed in 2:7–8 and 18–24 with the emergence of Chavah (Eve)—from Adam. Her name means to “live” or to “give life” and is commonly associated with beginnings, as in “the eve of such and such.” As we shall see, like Eve herself, the Sabbath is also said to be life-giving—as an event that offers an infusion of needed energy, a fact sometimes obscured by obligatory notions associated with religious observance.

When moderns think of Sabbath, they often think of compliance in the context of going to a house of worship on that day. Christians, for example, may think of Saturday as the day when Jews do “their church”—their religious worship; and, by contrast, Jews may think of Sunday as the day when Christians do “their sabbath.” For his part, Moses didn’t speak of weekly communal gathering places where rabbis and reverends pontificated on things divine. Though occasional visits associated with individuals’ personal needs were noted by Moses, mandated holy days were associated with annual gatherings in and around the Tabernacle/Temple (the Mishkan / Beit HaMikdash) and superintended by kohanim/priests. The synagogue wasn’t central then, as it is today.

A cursory read of the Hebrew Bible attests that synagogues and synagogue leaders (that is, rabbis) emerged many centuries after Moses, and toward the very end of the Hebrew Bible’s narrative—in the exilic and post-exilic days of Ezra-Nehemiah. Ezra’s person and performance easily correlate with the notion and function of a rabbi (for example, Ezra 7:6–10); and the communal study noted in his and Nehemiah’s day is a natural antecedent to the synagogue’s study, with its teaching styles, schedules, and practices (Neh 8:1ff). Moses emerged out of an Egyptian era—and the Torah with him; Ezra—referred to as the “Second Moses”—emerged many centuries later out of the Persian era. The Sabbath noted by Moses in Genesis 2:1–3 was a re-creational event, one that appeared in creation’s aftermath; it was a seminal, pre-institutional event depicted at the end of God’s own work week. We do well to consider the Sabbath’s primary purpose within its literary context.

In Genesis 2:1–2, God’s creative work is said to have been “completed”; in v. 3 readers are told, “He ceased from all his work” afterward. The resting workman motif noted in 2:1–3 correlates with God’s working/ making earlier throughout the week (cf. 1:7, 16, 21, 25, 31). Anthropomorphic ascriptions (man-like terms) are noted in the process of his so doing. In 1:3, 5, 9, 11, 14, 20, 24, 26, 28, 29, for example, readers are told God gave construction instruction (that is, he “said”) and, in like manner, that he employed vocation-specific terms (for example, “called” in 1:10) for his work-product. Further to the point, in 1:21 Moses said God examined (“saw”) his work: again, God is represented as a craftsman with an “eye” for his work (1:31). The Talmudic dictum “the Torah speaks the ordinary language of men” is helpful here: We know Torah is speaking; the question is what is Torah meaning?

In his commentary on Genesis, Rashi asked rhetorically: After all the work, “what did the world lack?” His answer was simple—and obvious: “rest.” Moving away from Rashi, note the word “creation” itself comes from the Latin creare (to “create,” “form,” “model,” etc.). The “rest” correlates with a related word. “Recreation”, for its part, comes from the Latin recreare, which means “to create anew” or “renew”—and this gets at the heart of Genesis’ Sabbath—being born anew, if you will.

Recreation (from “re-create”) harks back to the inherent, generative qualities associated with getting away from the everyday grind, to transcending the mundane with all its problems and possibilities. . . . People, as we know, “re-charge their batteries” by so doing. This is what’s at play on that special Sabbath day. The Sabbath is thus less about simply revisiting liturgical prayers with hypnotic melodies, and hearing someone re-tell old stories from an ancient scroll, as it is about vacating human experience, tapping the divine, and experiencing oneself being reborn by the exposure. The value of the time-honored liturgy and lecturing is associated with the transcendence mediated through both—and mediate they do.

The word “secular,” from secularis in the Latin, harks back to things being “of this age”; “sacred” by contrast, comes from the Latin sacer, meaning “set off” or “restrict,” and refers to being set apart from this age. With the original intent in view—assuming I understand it correctly—humans benefit from the Sabbath rest in ways akin to how humans benefit from a night’s sleep. It prompts me to believe the deliberateness with which we approach a restful sleep, on a daily basis, should also inform our commitment toward having a restful day on a weekly basis—the Sabbath.

Coming full circle to the week’s parasha, the birth associated with the creation account and the re-birth associated with the Sabbath’s re-creation account, strike me as particularly meaningful. There’s something intangible about getting away from one’s problems that enables problem-solvers to find renewed energies to both face their problems and to defeat them. The melodious liturgy and associated worship music contain Scripture and facilitate transcendence and prayer, as does Scripture reading with its explication. The spiritual benefit of Sabbath participation is complemented by its social benefits.

Related to the supernatural creation account is a more natural one. I’m thinking of Moses reminding us “it is not good for man to be alone” (Gen 2:18). While very much aware of the context’s associating it with securing a help-mate, I am also keenly aware we need shipmates in our fellowships, as we traverse life’s sometimes restless waters. It’s not simply that the UMJC needs all the friends we can get—and it’s indeed true that we do—it’s even more true that people, as persons, need friends to reach their potentials and dreams. Life is a team sport. We don’t win it on our own!

All said, at the threshold of a new year, permit me to exhort you to renew your commitment to be part of the relatively new miracle that is the Union of Messianic Jewish Congregations. At the top of Judaism’s calendar year, my wish for you is that you will experience the re-creation that the Sabbath brings, that you’ll be fully alive in 5785 and that you’ll be more fully alive in and with the UMJC community.

Jeffrey Seif serves as the UMJC’s executive director. He has served as a Bible College and Seminary professor for 35 years. Jeff graduated with a master’s degree and doctorate from the seminary at Southern Methodist University. He also took a master’s degree from Cambridge University, where he is currently at PhD student. He can be reached at jeffreyseif@umjc.org

Sukkot and the Frailty of Life

Sukkot 5785

Rabbi Barney Kasdan, UMJC President

Kehilat Ariel Messianic Synagogue, San Diego

What a tragic and challenging year! We might be very much tempted to say “good riddance” to this last year, 5784. Yet our tradition reminds us to welcome every New Year with a sense of hope and encouragement.  

What started with teshuva/repentance at Rosh Hashana has been sealed on the judgment day of Yom Kippur. As if to give us all a divine break, we have five days from the close of Yom Kippur to the next major festival, Sukkot. Although called “the time of our rejoicing,” the Feast of Tabernacles is not without its serious contemplation and its lessons seem all the more appropriate at this particular time. Yes, there is the joy of building and dwelling in the sukkah at home and at shul. There are the festival meals with family and friends. And of course, waving the lulav/palm branch to remind us of the physical blessings from our Heavenly Father. Intermingled with the joy of the eight-day holiday, however, is a rather sober lesson in life.

The scroll read for the festival is Kohelet/Ecclesiastes, which is a serious reminder of the realities of life. Solomon, the son of David, shares some of his vast experience with us every Sukkot. The rabbis note that Solomon penned his three famous works at crucial stages of his own life. He penned Song of Songs as a young man in courtship. Proverbs contains reflections of his mid-life. Kohelet contains his wisdom at the end of his days (Midrash Shir HaShirim 1:1). If that is the case, it is striking that the scroll of Kohelet starts with the exclamation “Chavel chavelim/Vanity of vanities!” Upon reflecting over his illustrious life, Solomon summarizes that it is essentially empty! What profit is a person’s work? Generations come and go. The sun rises and the wind blows but what really changes? (1:1–7). Simply put, there are so many things beyond our control. This could be very depressing or it could lead us in an entirely different direction. Now it becomes clearer why Megillat Kohelet is read every Sukkot. In the midst of the joy of the harvest and material blessings, we are reminded of the frailty of life. Who can control the twists and turns of life? The sukkah reminds us that there is a much bigger picture than our personal life or even than the current Middle East situation.

Additionally, Kohelet acknowledges that any innovations of mankind are rather meager in their importance. All things toil in weariness; the eye and the ear are never quite satisfied (1:8). Ultimately, “there is nothing new under the sun” (1:9). Our society is constantly looking for new gadgets to improve our existence. The incredible advance of technology impresses many. Yet, when a hurricane or a Middle East war hits, the world is suddenly shocked back into reality. For all our advances, we are still so far from Paradise. How appropriate that we meditate on the lessons of Kohelet while we dwell in our simple sukkah. Whatever our blessings and technologically advanced society, we are called to reflect on the simple realities of life. This time of year we are to get back to the wilderness experience of our ancestors. Although they had none of the modern conveniences we enjoy, were they less advanced than us today? Maybe there are forgotten truths that our generation needs to rediscover at this season of Sukkot.

Solomon goes on for chapters about the vanity of much of life. One could easily be discouraged and depressed through it all. Yet, at the very end of the scroll, Solomon summarizes his secret to living a fulfilled and purposeful life. “The end of the matter, all having been heard: fear God and keep his commandments” (12:13). Even though life is fragile and unpredictable, there is a purpose. Despite the fact that all the busy activity of mankind is so meager, we are all here for a reason.  

Perhaps one of the best secrets of life is revealed at this time of year during Sukkot. Ultimately, all is vanity unless God is in the picture.

How fitting it is that it was on this festival that our Messiah spoke his public message on the Temple Mount.

Now on the last day, the great day of the feast, Yeshua stood and cried out, saying, “If any man is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. He who believes in me, as the Scriptures said, from his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water” (Yochanan/John 7:37–38).

Messiah came to give us that personal connection to the Heavenly Father and to a life of meaning. The sukkah, while reminding us of the vanity of this life, also holds forth the meaning of real life. It is with mixed emotions that we celebrate the Holy Days this year 5785. Yet, may we all have a renewed sense of encouragement and hope as we dwell in the sukkah these eight days! 

Chag Sameyach and Am Yisrael Chai!

Everybody Needs a Hero

Yom Kippur 5785

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

Everybody needs a hero although often we don’t get the one we expect.

Today’s Torah portion, Leviticus 16:1–34, describes the heroic actions of Aaron, the Kohen Gadol (High Priest). Like most true heroes, he had to rise to an occasion greater than anything on his resume. As he prepared to enter the Holiest Place on Yom Kippur, to offer the sacrificial blood for the atonement of the Nation of Israel, he surely remembered how the bodies of his sons, Nadab and Abihu, were dragged from that same location. They had failed to perform their priestly duties with the proper reverence and prescribed protocols. It would not be surprising if Aaron felt the weight of his own failings, both as a priest and a parent, threatening to paralyze him. Yet, he knew that Israel needed a hero—and for this moment, he was God’s choice.

Before entering the Holiest Place as an advocate for the nation, Aaron first offered a sacrifice for the sins of himself and his household, acknowledging that humanity does not produce perfect people. But the contrite can rise above their shortcomings and accomplish incredible things in service to the Holy One. This is the same Aaron who, at the request of the angry mob, crafted the Golden Calf—making him culpable for one of the greatest indiscretions in Israel’s history. How ironic, then, that God would allow Aaron to stand in the gap once a year as the mediator of atonement.

As innocent blood was poured out for the sins of the priests and the people of Israel, the truly humane were called to recognize the violence of their own nature and the infirmities of their souls. This is why the psalmist can declare, “It is not sacrifices that you desire but a broken and contrite heart” (Psa 51:16–17). Aaron, in essence, was calling Israel to teshuvah (repentance). As Kohen Gadol, Aaron placed his hands upon the sacrificial animal, symbolically exhorting the people to place the hidden and depraved parts of their souls upon the altar to be extricated. This was a battle for the heart and life of Israel as the people of God. Everybody needs a hero, and Aaron was a true mediator of God’s justice and mercy.

The principle of mediation is firmly entrenched in the Torah. Moses mediated the Sinai covenant, receiving words from God to deliver to Israel and praying to God on Israel’s behalf. Aaron and his descendants wore precious jewels engraved with the names of the twelve tribes, symbolizing their role as representatives of the entire community before the Divine Presence. When they blessed the people after offering sacrifice, they acted as agents of God, mediating divine blessing.

Why, then, in response to Messianic and Christian claims about the role of the Messiah as mediator, do many Jewish people say, “We Jews believe that we can come directly to God; we have no need for a mediator”? This statement contrasts the two belief systems as a controversy over the need for mediation. Is this representation accurate? Historically, it is partially true, but only if we overlook the greater weight of the Torah and accept a single view of Judaism.

After the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, the priestly system of mediation ceased. Judaism, once a diverse landscape that included Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, the Qumran community, and the followers of Yeshua, had to determine how to survive without the priestly system essential to much of Torah. The early Messianic believers understood Yeshua as the embodiment of the Kohen Gadol and the ultimate mediator. Rabbinic Judaism, which gained prominence in the post-Temple era, saw Israel collectively as the mediator, de-emphasizing the role of individual mediators, even avoiding the glorification of Moses. This is reflected in the absence of Moses in the Passover Haggadah and his limited mention in the Siddur.

While the role of individual mediators is downplayed in Rabbinic Judaism (with the notable exception of Hasidism), and the priestly caste no longer stands as the collective representative of God to Israel, the individual Jew does not approach God directly. We acknowledge this in our traditions, maintaining the legacy of the Kohanim. They are honored with the first Aliyah (Torah blessing), the performance of the Pidyon Haben (redemption of the firstborn), and the traditional blessing at the end of Yom Kippur.

Will Herberg, a prominent Jewish thinker, recognized the necessity of mediation in Judaism:

In both Judaism and Christianity . . . there is no such thing as a direct and unmediated relation to God; this relation must in some way be mediated through one’s covenant status. In Judaism, however, it is by virtue of his being a member of the People Israel that the believer approaches God and has standing before him; in Christianity, it is by virtue of his being a member of Christ. . . . To be a Jew means to meet God and receive his grace in and through Israel; to be a Christian means to meet God and receive his grace in and through Christ. . . . Authentic Judaism is therefore Israel-centered . . . while authentic Christianity is Christ-centered.  In neither need this centrality lead to a diversion from God, because in both it is through mediation that God is approached.

This reality is expressed in the first blessing of the Amidah, the foundational prayer of Jewish tradition. The blessing begins by addressing God as “our God and the God of our Fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” concluding with “the Shield of Abraham.” We approach God, not individually, but as part of Israel, heirs to the promises made to the Patriarchs. This is mediation in its strongest sense.

The role of Messiah Yeshua in Christian spirituality highlights this aspect of Jewish spirituality. Just as Israel stands before God through Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the disciple of Yeshua stands before God through Yeshua. Messianic Jews have a unique stance, coming to God through both Israel and Messiah. As Will Herberg insightfully put it, Yeshua is a “one-man Israel.” In Messianic Jewish thought, Yeshua embodies the entire people, much like Jacob himself. As Israel is called God’s son, Yeshua is the quintessential Son of God, suffering for the redemption of Israel as our hero and mediator.

On October 7, one year ago, the entire world was shocked by the horrific massacre by Hamas at an outdoor party and among the kibbutzim by Israel’s southern border. There is no need to recount here the unthinkable acts of barbarism; it is enough to understand that this was an event that made the post-Holocaust statement “Never Again” fade into the past. But often lost amidst recollection of murderous acts, the deep concern for hostages taken, the proliferation of war, the bombing of innocents, demonstrations on campuses, and the endless debates over the propriety of retribution versus the need for defense, is the selfless sacrifice of countless individuals. First responders, hospital workers, IDF soldiers, neighbors, families and even transport drivers have risen to the occasion.

On October 7, Youssef Ziadna, a 47-year-old Bedouin Israeli minibus driver, was called to pick up one of his regular customers and raced headlong into Hamas’ brutal attack on Israel. He ended up rescuing 30 people, all Jewish Israelis, from the massacre at the outdoor party near Israel’s southern border, dodging bullets and veering off-road to bring them to safety. This resident of Rahat has joined an emerging pantheon of heroes who were able to carry out daring feats of rescue during a chaotic, dangerous and bloody attack in which thousands of Israelis were killed, and these are real, if often nameless heroes. Everybody needs heroes, and heroism can be contagious.

In these trying times, Yeshua’s sacrifice encourages us to courageously go forward to meet the challenges of life without a layer of self-protection. We are can selflessly meet the needs of others, reaching out to the neediest among us, because that is what he would do.

The world still needs real heroes, and quietly, some rise to the occasion. We are inspired by their sacrificial acts, but how much more should we be inspired by the intercession of the Messiah, the greatest revelation of God to humanity? If Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, David, and Solomon—heroes who were fragile and faulted—could mediate God’s justice and mercy, how much more can Yeshua, a High Priest who was tempted in all things yet without sin. Yeshua is our kappora (covering). He doesn’t hide us; he inspires us. He doesn’t go instead of us, but ahead of us, so that we may follow him into the throne room of grace and receive mercy in our time of need. After all, everybody needs a hero.

A Much-Needed Renewal of Awe

Rosh Hashanah 5785

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

With Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, we enter the Ten Days of Awe that will continue through Yom Kippur.

But we live in a time when it’s hard to be awed . . . because awe is the response to the presence of a transcendent other, something or someone far greater than ourselves, greater than our understanding or our ability to perceive. Much of modern life has inoculated us from that awe, focusing instead on what can be explained and managed and quantified. But awe is something we need to be fully human.

This year on September 12, the entrepreneur Jared Isaacman became the first private citizen to walk in space.

“It’s gorgeous,” he said, in awe of what he could see, as he eased out of the spacecraft into the vacuum of space, hundreds of miles from Earth. “Back at home, we all have a lot of work to do. But from here, it sure looks like a perfect world,” Isaacman said as the capsule soared above the South Pacific. Cameras on board caught his silhouette, waist high at the hatch, with the blue Earth beneath. (Sky News, news.sky.com)

Isaacman reportedly spent hundreds of millions to gain this vision of awe. The call of the Shofar this week draws us all back to awe in more direct fashion, back to realizing we are in the presence of something—someone—far greater than ourselves.

In some of the special passages we read at Rosh Hashanah services, the Shofar announces the approach or presence of the King, as at Mount Sinai, although it’s not clear who is sounding the Shofar: “And when the blast of the Shofar sounded long and became louder and louder, Moses spoke, and God answered him by voice” (Exod 19:19). Perhaps it is the Lord himself who sounds the Shofar: “Then the Lord will be seen over them, and His arrow will go forth like lightning. The Lord God will blow the Shofar, and go with whirlwinds from the south” (Zech 9:14).

This is what we might call the Shofar from Above, calling us to attention, to alertness in the presence of the True King. Several times in Exodus when the Shofar is sounded the people tremble. We need to hear, to pay attention to, this awesome, flesh-trembling call amidst the secular-material age in which we’re living.

There’s also the voice of the Shofar from Below, when we sound the Shofar to remind God-who-is-present of our need for his gracious response.

On the day of your gladness also, and at your appointed feasts and at the beginnings of your months, you shall blow the [shofars] over your burnt offerings and over the sacrifices of your peace offerings. They shall be a reminder of you before your God: I am the LORD your God. (Num 10:10 ESV)

This Rosh Hashanah, let us be mindful of both, the Shofar from Above awakening us to the presence of God in our midst, and the Shofar from Below, as we call on God to remember his promises of compassion and deliverance, above all the promise of deliverance through the sacrifice of Messiah Yeshua.

Another essential text for Rosh Hashanah is the Akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac in Genesis 22, which sheds additional light on this matter of awe, in turn revealing deep insights into the matter of worship. Our fundamental human need for awe is also a need to worship, to know and recognize and serve One beyond ourselves.

God had told Abraham to take his uniquely loved son Isaac to the land of Moriyya “and offer him up there as an offering-up” (Fox trans), signifying an act of worship. When it’s time to make the final ascent to the place God had marked out, Abraham tells his two servants, “You stay here with the donkey, and I and the lad will go yonder; we will worship/bow down (nishtachaveh) and return to you” (22:5).

God created humankind—on Rosh Hashanah, according to the sages—as worshipers, those who would be in awe of him and serve him. Worship, like awe, is a fundamental human need, but left to ourselves we create our own ways to worship with human perspectives at the center. Maybe it’s always been this way, but our age has carried this to near-perfection, as evident in the recent spacewalk and its grasp for awe. Moreover, the dominant culture says it may be fine to speak of God and worship in abstract and subjective terms, but forget about speaking of a personal God who has revealed both himself and his expectations of humankind.

But God is the Creator of all. He created us as worshipers and is seeking those who will genuinely worship him, in spirit and in truth, as our Messiah teaches (John 4:24). The Shofar from Above is God calling us to worship in spirit and in truth, offering up not what we choose, but what God directs—even the best and most difficult to give up. We want to worship to a point. Our ancestors in the wilderness made the golden calf because Moses was gone too long. They wanted to worship in truth until it got too hard or too scary, until it seemed incompatible with their immediate human needs.

Abraham faces a similar test. When he and Isaac reach the appointed site, Abraham builds an altar, binds Isaac, and places him upon it to be offered up. Only then does the angel stop him and reveal a ram caught in a thicket by its horn, a ram that Abraham is to sacrifice in place of his son. When the angel stops Abraham from raising the knife to Isaac’s throat, he says, “For now I know that you are in awe of God” (22:12 Fox). Abraham’s act of worship isn’t only until it’s too demanding or too mysterious; it is in place despite, or better amid, what is too demanding and too mysterious. And it prepares the way for the Shofar from Below, for crying out to God for his merciful intervention.

The Days of Awe call us to a renewal of awe, which in turn yields a renewal of worship. Will we live in awe of God until it’s too challenging or too paradoxical—or amid the challenges and paradoxes life in this world always presents? Will we devote ourselves this New Year to worshiping in spirit and in truth, knowing that the Father seeks such to worship him?

Teshuvah: How To Return

Parashat Nitzavim-Vayelech, Deuteronomy 29:9–31:30

David Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA 

And it shall come to pass when all these things come upon you . . . and you shall turn your heart. . . and return to Adonai and heed his voice . . . that Adonai will return your captivity . . . and return and gather you from all the nations where Adonai your God has scattered you. . . . And you shall turn and heed the voice of Adonai . . . and Adonai will return to rejoicing over you . . . if you return to Adonai your God with all your heart and with all your soul. (Deut 30:1–10, trans. R. Russ Resnik)

Why is it so hard to change? As we approach the season of teshuvah (turning, repentance) and the Ten Days of Repentance, this question is worth considering. Our mistakes are not usually one-time events; most of the time our flaws follow us like our shadow, as if they are part of who we are. Dramatic, intentional changes do happen, but they seem to be the exception rather than the rule.

Unsurprisingly, then, the conventional wisdom is that such an about-face is rare: people are who they are, and real change is, at best, an exceptional case. And how much more for a nation or people! There is much talk about nations going the wrong direction, institutions weakening, and societies crumbling. The unspoken assumption is that the movement is always monolithic and unidirectional. 

What is fascinating about Moses’ speech here is that it occupies a kind of middle ground between fatalism and the power of choice. Moses tells us, “When these things befall you . . .” not if, but when! Israel, according to the Torah, cannot avoid this future of descent into sinfulness and rebellion, nor can we avoid the resulting punishment and exile from the land.

And yet after all this, we and our children will return and heed his commands with all our hearts and souls. Repentance and return are just as assured as the initial failures and exile. 

Yet there is no guarantee that we will be the generation of return that this passage speaks of. The fact remains that change is hard. How can we overcome the obstacles, to become ba’alei teshuva, masters of repentance?

The theme of repentance is powerfully evident In the passage from Nitzavim above, though most English translations obscure the repetition of the Hebrew root shuv (turn). Writing on this passage in The Heart of Torah, R. Shai Held cites R. Shalom Noah Berezovsky (1911–2000), who “maintains that although many of us are convinced that we genuinely want to repent, most of us lack the courage required to go deep inside our inner worlds and repair what is broken. We thus prefer to tinker rather than transform.”

R. Berezovsky offers a powerful—and disturbing—parable. “The task of a person,” he writes, “is like that of a person who is building an elaborate house on a foundation of rubble.” If we are unwilling to invest the money and effort required to build a solid foundation, the building will be unstable, and cracks will appear again and again. Time and again we will spend money on fixing the latest crack, but these repeated investments will accomplish nothing because more cracks will inevitably emerge. Under such circumstances “the house remains perpetually in danger of collapse.” There is only one alternative . . .  Berezovsky avers: “to have the courage to destroy the whole structure of the house and to dig deep and strong foundations. On top of those foundations, [a person] can build and establish a strong building.” 

Doing substantive teshuvah requires, first of all, courage. It can be daunting to tear down a house to rebuild it from scratch; but to apply this strategy to our lives is downright terrifying. Why is this? Well, it’s risky to look at ourselves and honestly evaluate which parts of our identity we have been holding on to, that would be better let go. The opinions we don’t want to revisit, the negative habits we secretly enjoy, the conceits of self-image, the condescension we want to believe is warranted. The main obstacle to a good cleaning out of the messy garage of our souls is a very understandable fear of what will happen when we start pulling on those threads. The dysfunction we know seems safer than the uncertainty of wholesale renovation.

Perhaps this is why encounters with the divine in scripture so often start with the directive, “Don’t be afraid!” (see Gen 15:1, Gen 46:3, Luke 1:30). An encounter with the Holy One threatens to shatter whatever illusions we maintain about the state of our lives; fear is an understandable response. Indeed, we should probably fear more! And yet, these encounters in scripture are not expressions of God’s transcendent otherness, but are moments of intimacy and blessing. 

Encounter with God should engender fear and trembling, but also closeness and love. This paradox, found in the Torah and throughout our people’s history, is fundamental, and we should embrace both in this time of repentance: the fear that brings us to repentance, and the intimacy that gives us the courage to act on it. Our task is to internalize both fear of God and his compassionate embrace. Our haftarah describes this embrace using the imagery of being wrapped in finery:

I greatly rejoice in the Lord,

My whole being exults in my God.

For He has clothed me with garments of triumph,

Wrapped me in a robe of victory,

Like a bridegroom adorned with a turban,

Like a bride bedecked with her finery. (Isaiah 61:10 JPS)

The prophet’s response to exile is not to fear, but, paradoxically, to rejoice. Even as Israel’s house has been torn down to the foundations, Isaiah finds overwhelming joy in the hope of its rebuilding. To move forward, we need to also internalize this mind-bending reality that God holds us, and will turn to us, even as we turn to him.

Near the end of our parasha, as Moses encourages Joshua to lead the nation to the land, he might as well be speaking to us:

Be strong and resolute, for . . . the Lord Himself will go before you. He will be with you; He will not fail you or forsake you. Fear not and be not dismayed! (Deut 31:7–8)

May these words remind us of God’s constant presence with us, and thus help us find the strength for deep and enduring teshuvah in this season.

Application

It is one thing to know some lofty idea, but quite another to actually know how to internalize it. Let me recommend this practice of hitbonenut, contemplation, to help foster an abiding awareness of God’s presence. I find it a helpful way to solidify the faith needed for action, including repentance; perhaps you will also find it beneficial. 

For clarity (and alliteration), let us break down this practice into four stages: purpose, preparation, posture, and presence. 

Purpose

The Baal Shem Tov told a parable comparing God to a great king who surrounded himself with walls within walls so that only those who sought him the most insistently could find him. In the end, however, the walls were illusory, and his subjects could have approached him at any time. Our intention in this practice is not to seek out God’s ḥesed (sustaining love), but to discover it already encircling us.

Preparation

Recite words out loud to set the stage. The siddur offers many resources for this. Say or sing texts, particularly those that emphasize God’s abiding love for his people and each of his creatures. Song or niggun (wordless melody) can help break through obstacles and distractions. Psalms or verses from them are tailor-made for this (if you need a start, try 23, 27, 100, 103, 131, 145). Repeat them multiple times daily until practically memorized, in Hebrew or English. This can be part of, or in addition to, your usual daily prayer.

Posture

Orient yourself physically and mentally in an appropriate position. Know before whom you stand or sit. Start with the way the body is postured and then have your mind and soul join it in a posture of humility and awe. Your smallness and dependence should contrast with the magnificence and absolute heart-wrenching, mind-bending otherness of the Holy One.

Presence

Finally, having made yourself aware that God is right there before you, sit in that place. Realize and accept that all of us are like grass of the field, lasting a minute before the wind blows us into nothingness—and that’s ok. Then let go. Breathe in and out and realize that the fact that you can breathe is a gift beyond hope. Accept—no, feel—the love of One who rejoices over you as a bridegroom over a bride. God’s presence is in fact there at all times; you’re just usually looking elsewhere. So try to be aware of it.

And just sit in his presence until it’s time to go.

Remember Who You Are!

Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8; Haftarah, Isaiah 60:1–22

Rachel Wolf, Congregation Beth Messiah, Cincinnati

Ki tavo, when you come in (ki tavo) to the land . . . Remember Who You Are!

Toward this end, as Moses approaches the conclusion of his discourse to all Israel, he commands many practical, active, and concrete things that will serve as constant visible reminders to the people of Israel of who they are, and to whom they belong.

The significance of the identity of the Jewish people cannot be overstated.

Through the painstaking record-keeping of Moses, we witness the long, intensive efforts by God and by Moses to impress upon the people the seriousness of being the covenant people of God – the great blessings that will come from observing God’s commands and principles, and the dreadful curses that follow from God’s people turning away (see Deut 28).

Here are some of the constant visible reminders from this portion:

Reminder #1: First of All, First Fruits

Demonstrate and declare your origins and identity!

This week’s portion begins: “When you come in to the land which the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance, and you possess it and dwell in it . . .” The first thing the people are told to do is to take some of the firstfruits of the land, put them in a basket, and bring it to “the place God has chosen to put his name” (Deut 26:1–2). There, before the priest, at the holy place, the people of Israel are to

(1) publicly declare their covenant identity, and then

(2) recount their origins and history.

First they are to say to the priest: “I declare today to the Lord your God that I have come to the country which the Lord swore to our fathers to give us” (26:3).

Next, they are to tell the story of their origins. After recounting their humble beginnings each Israelite is to say:

So the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and with an outstretched arm, with great terror and with signs and wonders. He has brought us to this place and has given us this land, “a land flowing with milk and honey”; and now, behold, I have brought the firstfruits of the land which you, O Lord, have given me. (Deut 26:8–10)

 Reminder #2: The First Billboards

Israel is to set up huge stone signposts to be their solid visible reference point: 

It shall be, on the day when you cross over the Jordan to the land the Lord your God is giving you, that you shall set up for yourselves large stones, and whitewash them with lime. You shall write on them all the words of this law, when you have crossed over, that you may enter the land which the Lord your God is giving you. (Deut 27:1–7) 

 Moreover, they are commanded to use good handwriting! (v.7)

Reminder #3: Two Mountains

Do Not Forget: You are the people of God; you are to represent him in your actions. Just before the detailed recital of the blessings and curses in chapter 28, Moses sets up a powerful visible and audible reminder for the people that literally shouts to them as they are entering the Land:  Representatives of six of the tribes are to stand at the top of Mt. Gerizim to recite the blessings over the people, and the other six tribes are to stand at the top of Mt. Ebal to recite the curses over the people. Remember, at this point these blessings and curses are all in the “if, then” formula. This is a reminder, literally from on high, that Israel’s actions will affect their future—because they belong to the Lord their God. As they walk between these mountains these voices of their own brothers are to encourage them to choose the right path.

Yet as we read the blessings and curses in chapter 28, we know the tragedies that are to come.  But that is not the end of the story! Zion is called to Awake! and Arise!

Prophetic Words of Consolation in the Haftarah Portion that are to cause Jerusalem to Remember who she is: Awake and Arise!

During the seven weeks between Tisha B’av and Rosh Hashanah we read the seven Haftarot of Comfort and Consolation from Isaiah. Biblical comfort is not emotional sympathy. It is the proclamation of the besorah that Israel’s times of constant battlement are at an end. We are called to proclaim this truth to our people!—that in God’s historical timetable we are entering the holy era of Comfort, when God sets into action his plan to conquer the pervasive violence of evildoers. In Scripture, those who hate Israel also hate God.

But after the reverberating call to “Comfort!” in Isaiah 40, the prophet’s visions show that this is a process. I am going to quickly explore this process in the fourth Haftarah of Comfort (Isaiah 51:12–52:12) and then connect it to this week’s haftarah.

Three Times: AWAKE, AWAKE!  Remember Who You Are!

The Resurrection of Jerusalem

In this haftarah portion Zion is called twice to Awake, Awake!  But before that, the prophet, or perhaps God himself, first exhorts God’s Holy Arm to “Awake, awake! and put on strength” as in ancient days, when his arm parted the Red Sea for the redeemed to cross over (Isa 51:9–11). This is key, and gives us a pattern for prayer, because it is by God’s power that the subsequent Awake and Arise will happen.

After God’s arm of power is awakened, then, in 51:17, Jerusalem is being called to awake from the exhaustion and dejection of warfare and captivity; from having drained the cup of God’s wrath:

Awake, awake!

Stand up, O Jerusalem,

You who have drunk at the hand of the Lord

The cup of his fury. (51:17)

 Then God asks a question that I have repeatedly posed to our congregation and to Christians I know. God cries out: “By whom shall I comfort you?” (51:19). I believe he is calling all of us to take on this role today.

But Isaiah also indicates that God’s arm has indeed awakened. Calling Israel “You afflicted,” he speaks through the prophet:

See I have taken out of your hand the cup of trembling . . .

You shall no longer drink it.

But I will put it into the hand of those who afflict you. (51:22–23)

Finally, Zion is called to again, “Awake, awake!” But this time Zion is called to the beauty and strength she was created for. Zion, Remember who you are!  This time she is called to both awake and arise:

Awake, awake

Put on your strength, O Zion;
Put on your beautiful garments,
O Jerusalem, the holy city! . . .

Shake yourself from the dust, Arise . . .
O captive daughter of Zion!”  (Isa 52:1–3)

In this week’s Haftarah, Isaiah 60:1-22, Jerusalem is called not only to awake and arise, but to Arise and Shine out into the darkness!

Arise, shine;

For your light has come!

And the glory of the Lord is risen upon you.

[“Risen” in Hebrew is the word for the sun rising.]

For behold, the darkness shall cover the land,

And deep shadow the people;

But the Lord will arise [like the sun] over you,

And his glory will be seen upon you. 

The nations shall come to your light,

And kings to the brightness of your rising.  (Isa 60:1–3)

Historical Progression to Resurrection

In these consolation sections of Isaiah we see this progression:

1. Zion is called to awake from the stupor of captivity

2. Zion is called to awake to her beauty and strength in order to shake off her captivity and remember her calling

3. Zion is called to arise and shine as the glory of the Lord rises upon her in the sight of all the nations.

4. The righteous of all the nations are drawn to Jerusalem’s light, bringing help and gifts, and with acceptable offerings for the God of Israel, the God of the whole earth.

This is the death and resurrection of Jerusalem that brings life to the whole earth. Yeshua understood his own death and resurrection to be tied to the death and resurrection of Jerusalem, the holy city, in the eternal plan of God. Jerusalem is at the center of God’s plan to release the captives of all the earth. This is why she is so embattled from all sides. How can we be signposts, like those Moses commanded, to help our people Remember who they are? God is still asking, “By whom shall I comfort you?” Can we say, as did Isaiah, “Hineni!”?

Everlasting Love

Parashat Ki Tetze, Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19; Haftarah, Isaiah 54:1–10

Matthew Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

“For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed,

but my steadfast love shall not depart from you,  

and my covenant of peace shall not be removed,”

says the Lord, who has compassion on you. Isaiah 54:10

This is week four of the seven weeks of consolation. We have traveled a spiritual roller-coaster ride as we are reminded of our transgressions, as we mourn our dead, as we remember the bitter cup of chastisement, and at the end we see the steadfast love of the Lord to bring us back to him. After the process of chastisement and discipline, we find our forefathers returning to the Lord with emotions of shame, fear and reproach.

How could we turn our backs to the Lord?

Why did we attach ourselves to worthless idols?

Why did we spend our money for that which is not bread? (Isa 55:2)

The beautiful poetry of the Prophet Isaiah brings into sharp focus the consequences of removing ourselves from the Lord, and simultaneously the faithfulness of the Lord to redeem his people. In today’s reading we have a double citation of that most precious of virtues, Chesed, otherwise translated as steadfast love or loving kindness.

“In overflowing anger for a moment I hid my face from you,

but with everlasting love (chesed) I will have compassion on you,”

says the Lord, your Redeemer.

“For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed,

but my steadfast love (chesed) shall not depart from you . . .”  Isaiah 54:8, 10

The term chesed speaks of the special form of love that our God has for his people. It is the love that can never be broken, an everlasting love. God’s chesed is the ultimate source of hope for the Jewish people, because it speaks of a love that, despite all wrongs, despite all rejection, despite all rebellion, is a love that will never die. In the midst of our shame, fear, and reproach, the Lord reaches down and reminds the Jewish people, “My steadfast love shall not depart from you.”

That is a comforting meditation.

And inside of that meditation is the microcosmos of our individual lives. It is the realization that Israel is not a nameless, faceless conglomerate, but rather a living and vibrant community of sons and daughters of God. It is the realization that his everlasting love shall not depart from me or from you at an individual level.

That is also a comforting meditation.

Our rebellion, our sin, our foolishness and folly, in whatever form it takes, it results in the separation of our hearts and minds from our father above, separation from our maker, our God. Oftentimes in our walk of faith, we find ourselves enduring self-inflicted chastisement, long after the Lord has forgiven us and seeks to restore us. Those emotions of shame, fear and reproach can linger on as we wrestle with the guilt of our own rebellion. But the Lord offers to us words of healing and comfort.

“With everlasting love, I will have compassion on you,” says the Lord, your Redeemer.

It is also comforting to know that we are not unique in our struggle to forgive ourselves. Our forefathers also struggled with self-abasement. The cure to these struggles is to be immersed in the chesed of our Lord and our God. We must let his loving-kindness seep in and permeate every crack and dry crevice of our hearts. There in the place of complete immersion into his love, there we find redemption and healing and restoration. This is the Lord’s desire for us; in fact it is bound up in his very nature.

In the great epiphany on Mount Sinai, the Lord proclaimed himself to Moses this way:

The Lord passed before him and proclaimed, “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” (Exod 34:6)

Abounding in chesed. And this chesed is inseparable from the nature of God. Just like all the great eternal virtues of Torah, such as truth, righteousness, mercy, and justice, chesed is inseparable from the very nature of God. As we draw close to God, these eternal virtues become manifest in our life. In this way we know that God desires for us to experience his love.

This week our spirits were pierced once again with a time of national mourning as we commemorated the tragedy of 9/11. Twenty-three years have passed and the national wounds still ache. As we look out across the social landscape of America we wonder if God is chastising this nation or if we are in some stage of rebellion. Perhaps both at the same time. In like mind we look over the landscape of our Eretz Israel and wonder if God is chastising us or if we are in some stage of rebellion. Perhaps both at the same time.

One thing we can be sure of. The only hope for our people is to experience the chesed of our Lord and to walk in his redemption. The only place of healing and restoration for this day lies in the same place of healing and restoration for our forefathers as the prophet Isaiah wrote for us some 2500 years ago. To find healing, we all must experience God’s steadfast love.

I encourage us all to find comfort in the chesed of the Lord. I encourage us all to immerse ourselves in his love, and there find redemption for our broken hearts. I encourage us all to share God’s love to a hurting Israel and a hurting America. May his redemption come soon and in our days!

Shabbat Shalom to all!