"I Have Plenty!"

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4-36:43

Russ Resnik, UMJC Rabbinic Counsel

Gratitude is a powerful antidote to the virus of gloom and anxiety that afflicts us today. Jewish tradition recommends a daily dose to be taken before we even get out of bed:

Modeh ani l’fanecha—I thank you, living and eternal King,

for giving me back my soul in mercy.

Great is your faithfulness. (Koren Siddur)

When we wake up, we don’t know what lies ahead in the day that has just begun, but we can give thanks to the King for life itself. We can affirm simply being alive as a gift from God that reflects his mercy and faithfulness. A good start for the day!

This prayer also provides insight into the nature of gratitude, which can help us make a habit of it. One Hebrew term for gratitude is hakarat ha-tov, “recognizing the good.” The good is always there, and our task is to see it, amidst the disappointments, discouragements, and distractions that inevitably beset us. To see the good and then say it: “I thank you, living and eternal King, for giving me back my soul in mercy.” I thank you for this home in which I dwell, for the day ahead, for the opportunity to serve you and to serve those around me. And so on. But my examples here are rather generic, and the power of hakarat ha-tov is enhanced by specificity. I thank you for this bed in which I’m lying, warm and sheltered from the cold around me. I thank you for the day ahead in which I’ll have the opportunity to hang out with my wife (or husband) and kids. Or in which I’ll have a chance to be productive in that meeting with my supervisor and teammates. Or in which I’ll be going to that really tough class that gives me the opportunity to stretch my capacities and learn something new. And so on—I thank you for all these things that you give me in mercy and faithfulness.

Gratitude shows up in a surprising way in this week’s Torah reading when Esau, of all people, models it for us.

We’ve been following the story of Jacob, who had to flee his home in the land of Canaan to escape the wrath of his brother Esau. The two are twins, but Esau is the first-born and Jacob, at the direction of his mother, Rebekah, had succeeded in getting his father, Isaac, to speak the blessing of the first-born over him instead of Esau. Esau vows to get even and Jacob flees to his mother’s homeland far to the northeast. Now, after twenty long years in exile, Jacob is about to return to the land of Canaan, and he learns that Esau is coming to meet him with a menacing entourage of 400 men. But when Esau actually sees Jacob, he runs to embrace him and to weep together with him at their reunion (Gen 33:1–4).

Now, remember, this is the Esau who had vowed to murder Jacob in retribution for “stealing” his blessing (27:41–42). But now we see a different side of Esau. After he embraces Jacob, he asks about the droves of livestock that Jacob had sent to him to precede his own arrival: “What do you mean by this whole caravan that I’ve met?”

So Jacob said, “To find favor in your eyes, my lord.”

But Esau said, “I have plenty! O my brother, do keep all that belongs to you.” (Gen. 33:8–9)

The Jewish sages tend to distrust Esau’s generous words here, and suspect that he’s up to no good, but I disagree. Esau is an impulsive, passionate man. That character trait leads to his failings, especially his greatest failing, when he despised his own birthright and sold it on the spot to Jacob for the privilege of gulping down a bowl of stew (Gen. 25:34). Later, his passion was again evident in his cries to Isaac when he realized that Jacob had received the blessing intended for him: “Bless me, me too, my father!” And then this skilled hunter and man of the field “lifted up his voice and wept” (Gen 27:34, 38). Soon after, this same passion had made his threat to kill Jacob all too believable.

But now, at Esau’s reunion with Jacob, his passion is transformed into a nobility of character as he welcomes his brother with a kiss and weeping, and refuses his gift of appeasement. What transforms Esau’s response? Three words in Hebrew—yesh li rav, “I have plenty”—which make up the basic cry of gratitude. When Esau utters these words he rises above his own sorry role in the saga of Genesis. For the moment, at least, he forgets all that Jacob has taken from him, all that he has lost, and declares, “I have plenty, I have enough.”

Jacob insists on Esau accepting his extravagant gift, “because God has been gracious to me, and because I have everything—Yesh li kol, literally, ‘I have it all’” (Gen 33:11).

I’m going to resist the temptation to wonder whether Jacob is trying to one-up Esau here: “You have a lot, but I have it all!” Instead, let’s see him building on Esau’s expression of gratitude. Just as Esau doesn’t focus on what he doesn’t have, the birthright and blessing that Jacob took from him, so Jacob doesn’t focus on the twenty years of exile and contention with Uncle Laban he’s just left behind, or on the vast expense he’s just incurred for Esau’s gift, a gift representing a major transfer of wealth in the currency of those times. “I may be down 200 female goats, 20 billy goats, 200 ewes, 20 rams, 30 milking camels with their young, 40 cows, 10 bulls, 20 female donkeys and 10 male donkeys (Gen 32:15–16), but I have it all!”

In this scene, both twins, despite their deep differences of character, recognize the good and acknowledge it in gratitude.

It’s customary, not long after saying Modeh ani and getting out of bed, to recite the daily Shema, including the great commandment, “V’ahavta, you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.” When I’m wholehearted in my love for God, it doesn’t leave much room for worrying and kvetching. I realize that these are really just different forms of ingratitude—lamenting what I’ve lost, or never had, or might not have much longer, instead of being thankful for what I do have. Gratitude is part of wholehearted love for God, as Paul instructs us, “In everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Messiah Yeshua” (1 Thess. 5:18).

In everything give thanks: We don’t know whether Esau maintained the habit of saying yesh li rav, but we can make it part of our daily practice of gratitude. If we are really walking with Messiah, no matter what else we may have or not have, we can always say, Yesh li rav—I have plenty!

Leah's Tears

Parashat Vayetse, Genesis 28:10-32:3

Rabbi Isaac S. Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham, Ann Arbor, MI

The story of Leah, found in this week's parasha, is a profound narrative of unrequited love, longing, and ultimately, acceptance. Leah's role in the tumultuous family of Ya'akov is often overshadowed by her sister Rachel, whose beauty and favored status captivated Ya'akov's heart. Yet Leah's journey, as reflected in the names she gives her children, offers a timeless lesson in embracing life's adversities and finding contentment within our circumstances.

Leah's first three sons are named Reuven, Shimon, and Levi, and each name reveals her inner struggle and yearning for love. Reuven, whose name means "see, a son," reflects Leah's hope that Ya'akov would finally see her, notice her value, and love her for giving him a son. Shimon, meaning "heard," speaks to Leah's longing for God to hear her pain as she continues to feel unloved. Levi, meaning "attached," shows her desire for connection—a deep wish that bearing children would forge a bond between herself and Ya'akov.

A shift takes place, however, when Leah names her fourth son Yehudah. The name Yehudah means "praise," and in this moment, Leah's focus turns from her unfulfilled desire for her husband's love to gratitude toward God. Despite her continued lack of favor in Ya'akov's eyes, Leah finds a new sense of acceptance. She chooses to praise God for what she has, rather than lament what she lacks. This is a pivotal moment—it marks Leah's transformation from a woman defined by longing to a woman empowered by acceptance and gratitude.

This theme of contentment continues with Leah's handmaid, Zilpah, who bears two sons named Gad and Asher. Gad, meaning "good fortune," and Asher, meaning "happy" or "blessed," reflect a sense of joy and appreciation for life, even within the context of rivalry and adversity. Through Zilpah, Leah expresses a sense of fulfillment and abundance that goes beyond the competition for Ya'akov's affection. It is as if Leah has found a way to be content, to recognize the blessings she has received, and to embrace joy regardless of her circumstances.

Leah's journey resonates with many of us today. We often encounter situations in life where our deepest desires go unmet, where the love or recognition we long for seems out of reach. Leah teaches us that while we may not be able to control how others feel about us, we can choose how we respond to adversity. By naming her son Yehudah, Leah demonstrates a powerful act of letting go—of releasing her expectations and instead finding reason to give praise. This act of praise is not born out of her circumstances changing, but rather out of her own inner transformation.

This resonates with Rav Shaul's teaching in his letter to the community in Philippi, "I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I find myself. . . . I am able to do all things through him who strengthens me" (Phil 4:11-13).

There is a midrash that speaks to the role of Rachel, Leah's sister, in Jewish history. It tells us that Rachel was buried on the road, outside the land of Israel, so that she could cry for her children as they went into exile. Rachel's tears are for the children who are lost, displaced, and yearning for home. Leah, too, can be seen as a figure of tears—not for the exiled, but for those who are unwanted, ignored, or who suffer from feeling unloved. Leah's tears speak to the pain of unfulfilled desires, but her journey also speaks to the strength that comes from embracing what we do have, even when life does not meet our expectations.

This mirrors Yeshua's work while here on Earth where he lived out the Torah's mandate to care for those who are marginalized, unloved, or overlooked.

Leah's tears find an echo in Yeshua's own words of despair, "Eli Eli lama sabachthani"—"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Even in his anguish, Yeshua ends with acceptance, "Into your hands I commit my spirit." This profound moment parallels Leah's journey of moving from despair to acceptance, finding solace in her faith despite adversity.

Rabbi Jill Hammer teaches in her book, Omer Calendar for Biblical Women, that kabbalah tells us:

Leah represents the upper mother, Binah, the divine womb from which life and understanding flow. She represents malkhut shebegevurah, majesty within strength, because in spite of the painful reality of living with a jealous sister and a man who does not love her, Leah finds the dignity of praise and gratitude. We are most like Leah when we are able to live not only for those we want to love us, but for ourselves and for God.

I have personally experienced a journey similar to Leah's. Six years ago, I was laid off from a job I had held for twenty years—a job I loved deeply. To remain near my family and congregation, I accepted a new position that was far from ideal, mismatched to my skills and experience. For years, I struggled with the loss of my former role and the challenges of the new one. Only in the last year have I been able to let go of what was and embrace what is. I have found joy and blessing not only in my current circumstances but also in what I have learned and how I have grown through that dark period. As with Leah, these events can either break us or help us grow stronger and draw closer to Hashem.

In our own lives, we may find ourselves like Leah, striving for something—recognition, love, success—only to face repeated disappointments. Leah's story encourages us to shift our perspective, to let go of the insistence on what we think should happen, and instead to open our hearts to the blessings that are already present. Like Leah, we may come to see that even in the midst of adversity, there is reason to give praise. And like Leah, we can transform our tears from those of longing into those of gratitude, finding peace in what we have rather than in what we lack.

May we all be able to move from Reuven to Yehudah, Gad, and Asher.

May we all seek to move from angst and turmoil to a place of genuine peace, where we can praise with true happiness and recognize the blessings in our lives.

May we all learn from Leah's journey, finding strength in our struggles and learning to praise, even when life unfolds differently than we had hoped. Her story reminds us that true contentment is not found in the fulfillment of every desire, but in the ability to see the goodness already around us, and to find joy in our journey.

Why Me, Lord?

Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:19–28:9

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them.

This, of course, is Hamlet’s famous monologue written by William Shakespeare. Hamlet here is struggling with the pains and suffering of life and has reached a level of despair, wondering why he even exists. Job wonders the same thing: “Why was I even born if life is so tough?” And then there’s Rebekah’s question in this week’s parasha:

Isaac prayed to Adonai on behalf of his wife because she was barren. Adonai answered his plea and his wife Rebekah became pregnant.

But the children struggled with one another inside her, and she said, “If it’s like this, why is this happening to me?” So she went to inquire of Adonai. (Gen 25:21-23, TLV)

Here’s the Hebrew of her question: Lamah Zeh Anokhi? Literally: “Why this me?” In other words, “Why me, Lord? Why is this happening to me? Why do I exist? What’s the point of this suffering?” It’s a good question, an important question. How do we make sense of this life? If we are to move forward with gardening our gardens, then we need some understanding of the thorns and weeds and travail and hot sun and groundhogs eating our zucchini. And some understanding of why we in particular are experiencing this. Why this for me, Lord?

Rebekah is the first person in the Bible to have twins, and these twins are already not getting along, even before they’re born. All of this is a new thing that has never happened to anyone, and Rebekah is probably scared and overwhelmed. One midrash has Rebekah ask around to other women who have been pregnant:

“She said: If this is so, why do I exist [lama zeh anokhi]?” Rabbi Yitzḥak said: It teaches that our matriarch Rebecca was circulating around the entrances of women’s houses and saying to them: “In your days, did you experience this suffering? If this is the suffering that comes with children; had I only not conceived!” (Genesis Rabbah 63:6)

Rebekah is asking what the Backstreet Boys asked in that number one hit “I Want it That Way”:

Tell me why

Ain't nothin' but a heartache

Tell me why

Ain't nothing but a mistake

I mean, it’s no Shakespeare, but it still resonates. Rebekah asks in order to know why: “Did you struggle like this? Is this normal? What’s going on inside me?” Remember, this is after experiencing barrenness, like all the other matriarchs of our faith. And the fruitfulness, the blessing, comes with unforeseen conflict. So, how to figure it out? I mean, it’s not like she can get an ultrasound and see: “Oh, there’s two in there!” This is unprecedented utero-conflict. And they’re most likely arguing about territory:

“Mo-om! He’s on my side of the womb!”

“Well, he grabbed my heel! And then he pinched my already-formed hair!”

“Are we there yet? It’s getting crowded in here!”

So, none of the other women have experienced this, and thus Rebekah is at the end of her wits. But notice what she does. It turns out there is an ultrasound: the ultrasound of the Lord. There is someone who knows what’s going on inside her: the God who sees. So she went to inquire of Adonai, the first person in the Bible to do so. And the Lord explains that there are two babies in there, and that they are two nations, fighting against one another, which I suppose is somewhat comforting if you’re the first woman to give birth to twins.

There is a tension here with Rebekah’s, Job’s, and Hamlet’s question: “Why am I?” We have no say in the fact that we exist. We got no vote in the matter. Nor do we have any say in the difficult things that happen to us. The Lord responds to Rebekah’s question of “Why is this happening to me?” by showing her that she is seen, cared for, loved, and understood. It’s not a quick solution or a trite aphorism; it’s simply a move toward trust and learning. God knows what’s going on inside her and explains it. Also, we notice that Rebekah has the wisdom to bring her difficult questions to God. Sometimes we don’t do that. We just cry out or despair to ourselves, or maybe another person. This might provide some help, but ultimately we need to bring our tough questions to God, as Rebekah did.

There are things I don’t yet understand about myself, about marriage, about congregational life, about the Bible, about God, about suffering, about Israel, about life, and about soccer (What is “offsides”?). Some of these things I may learn next week, and some I may learn in front of Yeshua himself. But at some point, the Lord will show me. He’s our Rabbi, our Teacher. This was the original problem with Adam and Eve eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil.

Consider the character of God for a moment. God is our Father, our Teacher, our Rabbi. Would you, as a parent or teacher, want your children or students to learn the difference between right and wrong? Yes, of course you would. Then Kal VaChomer, how much more would God want to teach and show Adam and Eve what is good and not good. After all, he is the one who declared that creation was good seven times, “Ki tov!” And he was the one to declare the first thing that was “not good”—that the human would be isolated and alone.

So the question is, if God wanted them to have this information, how were Adam and Eve to learn? Well, there were two paths. Grab the knowledge, and make yourself the reference for right and wrong (eat the forbidden fruit). Or, learn from the Teacher over time. But instead, Adam and Eve decided that they did not want to be taught by the Teacher, the Rabbi, that they wanted to distort what was good and not good; this led to a destruction of the intimate relationship they had with each other and with God, a major setback to relating and knowing through learning.

But Rebekah went the other way, because she inquired of the Lord. Perhaps we can too, and say with King David:

Show me Your ways, Adonai.

Teach me Your paths. (Psalm 25:4)

Because He’s the God who lives and sees us—the God who teaches us, who instructs us. He answers our tough questions and sees our tough emotions and circumstances. So perhaps a further question beyond “Why me, Lord?” is this one: “Rabbi, what are you teaching me now?”

Invoke God’s Character When You Pray

Parashat Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1–25:18

Matt Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

And he said, “O Lord, God of my master Abraham, please grant me success today and show steadfast love to my master Abraham. Behold, I am standing by the spring of water, and the daughters of the men of the city are coming out to draw water. Let the young woman to whom I shall say, ‘Please let down your jar that I may drink,’ and who shall say, ‘Drink, and I will water your camels’—let her be the one whom you have appointed for your servant Isaac. By this I shall know that you have shown steadfast love to my master.” Genesis 24:12–14

Our past two portions, Vayeira and Chayei Sarah, have highlighted the direct and, dare I say, deliberately calculating way in which our protagonists talk with God. Last week we read that astonishing negotiation between Abraham and God for the righteous living among Sodom and Gomorrah. At the outset of the negotiation Abraham asked a question that constrained the Lord into a moral corner: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?” (Gen 18:25). The brilliance of Abraham’s question is not just that it has a rhetorical tone, but that it also compels the hand of the Lord to respond according to his own character trait of justice.

I imagine the Lord experiencing a similar emotion of delight as I do as a father when one of my own children corners me with a well-thought-out question.

Likewise with the Shunammite woman’s piercing question to Elisha in last week’s haftarah reading: “Then she said, ‘Did I ask my lord for a son? Did I not say, “Do not deceive me?”’” (2 Kings 4:28). In that heart-wrenching moment she posed a question that intentionally placed a moral burden upon Elisha to act with integrity towards her. Her interrogation was not just a plea, but an accusation of bad faith (towards Elisha), clothed in a cry of despair.

In similar manner, in this week’s reading, we see Abraham’s servant, who is generally accepted to be Eliezer, formulate a request to the Lord that at face value seems innocuous, but upon further analysis seems to be constraining God into a corner, forcing God’s hand to act. “By this I shall know that you have shown steadfast love to my master” (Gen 24:14b). By steadfast love he means hesed, often translated as “lovingkindness,” that particular love that God has towards his children, just to make it very specific and very personal.

Rav Sh’muel ben Nachmani in Talmud, Tractate Ta’anit 4, names three people whose requests to God were considered inappropriate, Eliezer’s request here being one of the three (Saul and Jephthah being the other two). Eliezer is invoking an “if, then” clause into his prayer. If you grant my request, then I will know you love Abraham. At face value it can seem that Eliezer is manipulating God into granting his request. In the same way one of my wonderful children might say to me, “Abba, if you truly love me, do this (request) for me.” But it’s not that at all.

Rashi, in disagreement with Rav Sh’muel’s assessment, finds Eliezer’s prayer reasonable. “If she is of his family and a fit companion for him, I shall know that thou hast shown kindness to my master.” In other words, through Rebecca, God’s hesed is made manifest.

In Genesis 12 God made a promise to Abraham, a promise that he later restated as an oath at the Akedah, the Binding of Isaac. God said to Abraham, “By myself I have sworn, declares the Lord, because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you…” (Gen 22:16–17). This is the strongest of all possible oaths made in the entire universe because it is an oath that God made upon himself. In other words, God’s very name, his character, his integrity, is bound up in this oath that he swore unto our father Abraham. One Jewish reading places Eliezer as one of the “young men” that Abraham took with him on the journey to Mount Moriah and the binding of Isaac (Gen 22:3). Following this tradition, Eliezer was there to meet Abraham as he returned from the mountain top experience, and Eliezer was reminding God of the promise he had made to bless Abraham and show him lovingkindness or hesed.

In the three prayers that we have read these past two weeks, we see the heroes of the story, our forefathers and foremothers, invoke the character of God in their supplications before him. Abraham invoked the Lord’s characteristic of justice; Eliezer invoked the Lord’s promise of hesed; and the Shunammite woman invoked the Lord’s integrity (via proxy through Elisha). Oftentimes when we are faced with overwhelming challenges in our life, we forget the character traits of our heavenly Father and we fall into despair or doubt. But these great heroes of our people show us a different path. Perhaps the purpose of our challenge is to remind us to lean upon the steadfast love of the Lord and to remember the character traits of the God of Abraham.

A word of teaching; it’s always good to remember the character traits of the Lord and meditate upon them. God is just; he is full of lovingkindness; he is a God of integrity and faithfulness. These character traits of the Lord are just the beginning of the depth of God’s heart. He is kind; He is pure; He is gentle; He is humble; He is lowly; He is a warrior; He is jealous; He is wonderful. We do well to meditate upon these things.

A word of encouragement; just like our forefathers, we too can invoke the character of God in our prayers. Not that God needs reminding, but we undoubtedly do. Seek the Lord in this way and remember that he is a shield for all who take refuge in him (Psa 18:30). He was a shield to Abraham, to Eliezer, and to the Shunammite woman, and he is our shield as well.

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.