How God Describes Himself

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

by Rabbi David Friedman, Jerusalem

How incredible are the blessings and gifts of God! Every day I wake up is a new start; I recite the “modeh ani” prayer every morning, and before me is a chance to live life fully, to spend time with people I love, to study and apply our magnificent Torah, to enjoy living in the Land and in the city of my great love. Yet, even after experiencing such incredible blessings, too often I so quickly turn from God’s ways! That very phenomenon is a part of today’s Torah portion. 

Our people had just witnessed the ten plagues. They had been miraculously delivered out of slavery. The Red Sea split right before them. Pharaoh’s pursuing army was destroyed. The Torah was being given to Moshe on Mt. Sinai, and the people witnessed natural phenomena that attested to the heavenly origin of the Sinai experience. Yet we are nearly slapped in the face, shocked, with the actions of our people. We encounter them and wince. We read of Aaron’s actions and cannot believe what we see! 

Now the people saw that Moshe took his time to come down the Mountain, so the people gathered against Aaron, then said to him: “Get up, make gods for us that will go before us, since that man Moshe who brought us up from the land of Egypt . . . we don’t know what happened to him!”

So Aaron said to them, “Take off the gold ear rings that are in the ears of your wives, your sons and your daughters; then bring (them) to me.”

And all the people took apart the gold ear rings that were in their ears, and brought (them) to Aaron. Then he took (them) from their hands, and fashioned it with tools; and he made it (into) a calf mask. Then they said: “These are your gods, Israel, that brought you up from the land of Egypt.”

So Aaron witnessed this, and he then built an altar in front of them, and Aaron cried out, saying: “It is a holy day to Adonai tomorrow.” (Exod 32:1-5)

It is here that I catch my breath—every year while reading this. I feel badly for Aaron: he is confronted by faithless, unhappy elements of his own people. Their voices are loud to him; he feels he is outnumbered. Aaron knows that he is planning something that is not kosher (v. 4, making a calf-mask, and v. 5, creating a new “holy” day). But he does it anyway. Perhaps he thinks he has to do these things to hold off a riot or mutiny. In fact, we don’t know how Aaron can justify what he did as the text here is not revealing on that point. As Aaron heard the people say, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt” (v. 4), how could he have stomached it? I think to myself, “How could he do this?” It’s a good thing at this point that God sent Moses back down the mount to set things in order. 

We are faced with a catastrophe that could undo the newly found liberation, that could have damaged the covenant relationship between God and his people beyond repair. As we read this passage, which of us does not feel betrayal, revulsion and sorrow? Even 3,300 years after this event took place, reading this description of what happened ignites such feelings in all of us. 

A most remarkable thing, then, is just how merciful and forgiving the God of Israel truly is. This situation could have had any number of outcomes. God does not pull punches. He tells Moses, “Your nation . . . has corrupted itself” (v. 7), and then: 

Adonai said to Moshe: “I have seen this people, and look, they are stiff necked. And now, leave me, so my fuming anger will be against them, and annihilate them. Then I will make a great nation from you.” (32:9–10)

We don’t read: “Oh, well, I guess your kinsmen felt leaderless and insecure that you, Moses, were gone for a few weeks. So we have to understand their feelings and not judge them.” No! It is amazing just how honest and straightforward our Torah is in its historical recollections. The bottom line is that God is provoked, and Moses is not happy, either: “Then Moshe got angry, and threw the tablets down, breaking them, underneath the Mountain” (32:19). 

Yet, Moses’ amazing plea to God helps the situation: 

Remember Abraham, Isaac and Israel, your servants, to whom you gave an oath in which you said to them, “I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky, and all of this land, that I said I will grant to your descendants so that they will inherit it forever.”

Then Adonai was comforted concerning the harsh actions that he said he would do to his people. (Exod 32:13–14)

Like his ancestor Abraham, Moses is bold in his intercession for his people. And somehow this touches the very heart of God. As a result, while things are not totally calm, the people avoid annihilation, moving instead toward teshuva (repentance), rectifying the crisis. At this point, we breathe a sigh of relief in knowing that two million people will not perish, even though they will go through consequences for their idolatry: “On that very day, about three thousand people from the nation fell” (32:28). Jews had to kill other Jews; this was the outcome, a sad and an extremely serious one.

The inevitable confrontation between Moses and Aaron occurs:

Then Moshe said to Aaron: “What did this people do to you, in order to bring upon you such a huge missing of the mark?” Then Aaron replied: “Don’t get angry, sir! You know the people, that they are evil! And they said to me, ‘Make gods for us that will go before us, because that man Moshe, who brought us up from the land of Egypt, we don’t know what happened to him!’”

“So I said to them, ‘Whoever has gold, take it apart and give it to me, so that I can throw it into fire; then this calf came out.” (Exod 32:21–24)

Aaron blames the people. Of course. I’m sure that I would have, too. It’s our common reaction when we disobey Torah and do wrong to others.

What do we learn from this? Here are some things I glean from our parasha:

1. God is merciful and forgiving.  

2. Yet he does not compromise his righteousness.

3. It is a blessing to have a strong intercessor as a leader (like Moses).

4. The battle we face is the same one that Moses and Israel faced: the battle to choose to do what is right (according to Torah) or what is wrong (contrary to Torah).

5. Our insecurities and unwanted circumstances are not valid excuses for choosing to do wrong.

6. There are serious consequences for disobeying God’s instructions.

I listed “God is merciful and forgiving” as the prominent lesson. It is the bottom line of our parasha, and probably of most Torah portions. In 33:14, we get a glimpse of the great mercy, forgiveness, and love that God had for his covenant people: “Then he (God) responded (to Moshe): “My face will go (on the journey to Israel with the people), and I will lead you!” 

To put it into more human terms, God had been greatly hurt and angered by our ancestors’ behavior, but he opted for reconciliation. As King of our precious covenant, he could have trashed it all after the incident of idolatry. But he didn’t. In fact, he continued to accompany and lead our people. And what does that show us? That God indeed is merciful and forgiving. His heart toward Israel was one of compassion: “I will have womb mercies on whomever I will have womb mercies” (33:19). Look at how God describes himself (!) in our parasha: 

So Adonai passed before him (Moshe), crying: “Adonai, Adonai, Compassionate and Merciful God, long-nosed, and great in covenant love and truth! Locking up covenant love for thousands; carrying away Torah transgressions, crimes, and missings of the mark; but he will not totally sanitize the Torah transgressions, afflicting the Torah transgressions of fathers upon the children, and upon the children of the children, unto the third and fourth generations. (Exod 34:6–7)

So the incident of idolatry is to be remembered throughout all time, due to its inclusion in the Torah. But our God, though he will not compromise with wrongdoing, so loves his covenant people! And I love this emphasis in our parasha. May it inspire us all!  

All biblical passages are translated by the author.

Photo by Michael Weidner on Unsplash

Our Hands Are Full

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

by David N., Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

In Parashat Tetzaveh we get the first explicit mention of Aaron and his sons as priests of Israel. While priests are mentioned earlier in the book of Exodus, this is where Aaron’s family explicitly gets the job. The first order of business seems to be their wardrobe: “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment” (28:3). As they say, “The ephod makes the man,” and Aaron’s family gets an entire chapter devoted to the rich attire that signifies its priestly role. 

Moses is notably not mentioned by name in Tetzaveh, but the grammar seems to emphasize his role. The first words of the parasha, “You shall further instruct the Israelites”, begin not just with tetzaveh (command) but ve’atah tetzaveh, adding emphasis on the “you”—perhaps better translated “you, yourself, shall instruct the Israelites” (Exod 27:20). The same emphasis begins chapter 28: “You shall bring forward your brother Aaron” (28:1, also see 28:3). In fact the entire parasha seems to be directed specifically at Moses, employing the singular imperative tense throughout, yet doesn’t use his name a single time. 

The commentator Ramban sees this grammatical nuance as directing Moses to do the work personally and not to delegate any of the details. However, while Moses is clearly the responsible party, making the garments is also a communal endeavor. Actually making the garments are those from among the community, poetically described as “the wise of heart that I have filled with the spirit of wisdom” (28:3). 

So, while the only people explicitly named in the parasha are Aaron and his sons, Moses is hardly peripheral. We are also introduced to some as-yet-unnamed artisans who are “filled” (maleh) with a spirit of wisdom who have the artistry and technical skills to actually make the garments.  

What follows is a description of the garments for the priestly service (chapter 28) that is perhaps more detailed than modern readers would prefer—unless you are a clothing designer trying to make them, in which case it is frustratingly spare on details. The garments include a breastpiece, an ephod, a robe, a fringed tunic, a headdress, and a sash. “Put these [garments] on your brother Aaron and on his sons as well, anoint them, and ordain [umil’eita et yadam] them and consecrate them to serve Me as priests.” (28:41)

In this verse and several others, Moses is commanded to ordain Aaron and sons as priests, as in Exodus 29:9, “umil’eita yad-Aharon veyad banav,” literally “you shall fill Aaron’s hands, and the hands of his sons.” Rashi relates this idiom of filling their hands to a French custom:  

When someone is inaugurated, entering upon a particular task from that day on, his hand is “filled” with it. Here in Europe, when someone is appointed to a position, the ruler puts a leather glove in his hand, calling it a “gauntlet,” by means of which he is invested with the office and takes possession of it. Such a transmittal of authority is “filling the hand.” (Rashi on 28:41)

Just as Moses commanded the building of the mishkan, a physical structure to house the Presence of God among the people, now he builds a social structure, starting with priests who facilitate and mediate God’s Presence.  

But it is not enough to consecrate them or anoint them. Even the clothes do not fully “make the man.” Additionally, their hands must be filled; they must have something to put their hands to. They need a job. Which is perhaps why, immediately after the consecration ceremony, before the parasha ends, even before the instructions for the building of the altar, God commands concerning the daily tamid offering. The tamid is the workhorse of the sacrifices, performed twice daily, the primary occupation of the priests serving. 

“Now this is what you shall offer upon the altar: two yearling lambs each day, regularly. You shall offer the one lamb in the morning, and you shall offer the other lamb at twilight . . . a regular burnt offering throughout the generations, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting before the Lord. For there I will meet with you, and there I will speak with you, and there I will meet with the Israelites, and it shall be sanctified by My Presence.” (29:38–43)

The priests are not set apart simply for the sake of being set apart; while there may be inherent value in being set apart (that is, holiness), the priests of Israel are not an aristocracy as an end unto themselves. Rather, they are set apart for a vocation, a calling. They have a purpose. 

One (perhaps underrated) element to healthy, thriving humans is a sense of purpose. In a recent TED Talk, Johann Hari, an author who specializes in depression, points to a growing body of research showing that among other things, not having a sense of purpose is related to depression. What’s more, it is important for people to have this purpose in the context of social bonds.  

In order to be a whole person we each need a vocation that is bigger than ourselves. It need not be glamorous or excessively heroic, and its main ingredients may simply be caring for the people put in front of us. But it must demand something of us. This is why it is not enough to consecrate Aaron and his sons as priests. Rather, Moses is further instructed to “fill their hands” by giving them the tamid offering to perform daily. 

Not that the tamid was all they did. It would trivialize the role of the priests to think of them as essentially glorified slaughterhouse-workers. Their real vocation was mediating the Presence of Hashem to the rest of the community, as judges, communal leaders, and in the overall maintenance of Israelite religion. This first offering, however, gets them started with something practical, achievable, and meaningful. 

Now that the Temple service is not with us, who performs these varied tasks? While Aaron’s descendants are still given a place of honor in our communities today, they no longer play a central role in Israel’s worship. Yeshua acts as the High Priest (Hebrews 4:14), and an aspect of the priesthood is given to all the children of Israel. As the priest’s garments are described, you may notice various parts made partially or wholly of blue, or techelet. For example, the breastpiece is “held in place by a cord of blue,” bipetil techelet (28:28). This expression is found in another place in Torah, but as part of an otherwise inscrutable commandment: 

The Lord said to Moses as follows: Speak to the Israelite people and instruct them to make for themselves fringes on the corners of their garments throughout the ages; let them attach a cord of blue (petil techelet) to the fringe at each corner. (Num 15:38–39)

One can think of this cord of techelet blue as a small part of the priestly uniform designated for all Israel. As the Levites are set apart from among Israel, and the priests from among the Levites, so Israel is set apart among the nations—and not without a vocation of our own! 

But again, now that the Temple does not stand, what is our vocation? What, when we wake up tomorrow, is the purpose that fills our hands? Well, that is a question that deserves more than a paragraph. Perhaps it is best left as an exercise for the reader—to be discovered through study and prayer, alongside our community. What is it that we are filled with a “spirit of wisdom” to accomplish?  

May each of us, with God’s help, find our role in establishing the glorious state of affairs described later in the parasha: 

“I will abide among the Israelites, and I will be their God. And they shall know that I the Lord am their God, who brought them out of the land of Egypt that I might abide among them, I the Lord their God.” (29:45–46)

  All Biblical quotations are from the Jewish Publication Society Tanakh translation.

When God Moves in Next Door

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

Rabbi Yahnatan Lasko, Beth Messiah Congregation, Montgomery Village, MD

What happens when God shows up?

The book of Exodus is a powerful series of answers to this question. When God shows up, the oppressed realize that their voices have indeed been heard. When God shows up, the unjust powers of this world are judged. When God shows up, idols get broken down, the enslaved go free and their children rejoice. When God shows up, the nations of the world hear and see and put their trust in God. When God shows up at Sinai, revelation happens, eternal covenants are made, and a way of life that leads to wisdom and blessing is given. When God shows up after the incident with the golden calf, iniquity and sin are judged and atoned for, the covenant is renewed, and the people’s way of life is restored. When God shows up, priests are ordained, artisans are filled with the Ruach to create beautiful work, and the people are inspired to bring their best to build God’s house. At the end of Exodus, God shows up when his glory fills the Tabernacle, and all of Israel sees God’s presence as a cloud, resting with them in the mishkan and guiding them forward on their journey. At every turn, Exodus is a story of God showing up in powerful ways.

This week’s parasha, Terumah, describes the various furnishings of the Tabernacle, prompting a tantalizing question: What happens when God moves in next door?

Our ancestors surely must have wondered this after God instructed Moses: “Have them make a Sanctuary for Me, so that I may dwell among them” (Exod 25:8). This would be a new step in Israel’s relationship with God. They had known God as the God of their ancestors. They had known God as the God who judged the idols of Egypt. They had known God as the voice of revelation speaking from the mountain. But now God was initiating a new thing: becoming “the God who dwells among them.” 

This relationship of “God with us” would center on a physical structure, a holy tabernacle or tent. The cloud of God’s presence had been with the Israelite camp before, going before them to lead the way or standing behind them to guard and protect them. Now there would be a mishkan, a tent—a physical touchpoint, disassembled, carried, and reassembled by Levites—to serve as the designated place for God, as God’s home among the Israelites. 

What happens when God moves in next door? Our parasha sets forth a provisional answer—a dynamic of mutuality, of giving back and forth—by means of paradox: “Tell Bnei-Yisrael to take up an offering for Me. From anyone whose heart compels him you are to take My offering” (Exod 25:2). 

God describes the gift that each Israelite would give as terumati—literally “my gift.” Before individuals even feel their hearts stirred within them to give gifts to God, those same gifts already belong to God, in a sense. Perhaps this is because God is the Creator of everything, or maybe it’s because God had recently enriched the Israelites with Egyptian valuables (as restitution for years of slavery). Despite the fact that everything the Israelites have to give already belongs to God, it is nevertheless important to God that they feel moved to give it, and do so. 

Another paradox resides in the phrase vayik’khu-li. While the particle li on the end may rightly be rendered “for me” (as in our translation, “take for me an offering”), it also can blend more seamlessly into an invitation: “take me.” Robert Alter effectively captures this ambiguity in his translation: “Speak to the Israelites, that they take Me a donation” (The Five Books of Moses, 460–461, emphasis mine). 

How can Israel “take [God]” as a gift? The word for taking, lakach, forms the root of another important biblical Hebrew word: lekach, which literally means “a takeaway.” It is often translated “doctrine,” and we regularly encounter this word through our liturgy in the verse from Proverbs quoted at the conclusion of the Torah service: Ki lekach tov natati lachem—”For I give you sound learning—do not forsake my instruction” (Prov 4:2). A midrash from Exodus Rabbah expounds further: 

“And they shall bring Me gifts” (Exodus 25:2)—here it is written, “for I have given you a good portion, do not forsake My teaching” (Proverbs 4:2); do not forsake the purchase that I gave to you. When people buy things, their purchase has gold but no silver, or silver but no gold, but the purchase that I give to you has silver, as it is said “The sayings of God are sayings pure like smelted silver” (Psalms 12:7). It has gold, as it is said “More lovely than gold and than much fine gold” (Psalms 19:11). . . . The Holy Blessed One said to Israel, “I sell to you My Torah, and (as if such a thing could be) I am sold along with it.” (Sefaria Community Translation, https://www.sefaria.org/Shemot_Rabbah.33.1?lang=bi, CC0)

The midrash connects the verb yik’khu-li with the Torah, the lekach tov, the good doctrine or takeaway teaching. This fits the order of events in Exodus: first God gives the Torah to Israel on Sinai, with all its statutes and ordinances, and now God is taking an offering.  

The midrash continues, going beyond the language of giving to explain God’s gift: “I’ve given you My Torah, but with it, I’ve sold you myself.”

This is similar to a King who had an only daughter. One of the kings came and took her and sought to go back to his land to marry her. He said to him, “My daughter who I have given to you is my only one. I cannot bear to separate from her, but to tell you that you cannot take her is also impossible since she is your wife. Rather, do me this favour, that everywhere you go make me a small room, so that I can live with you, for I cannot leave my daughter.” So said God to Israel: “I have given you the Torah. I cannot bear to separate from her, and to tell you not to take her is also impossible. Rather, everywhere you go make me one house so that I can live within it” as it is said “And make me a sanctuary” (Exodus 25:8).

This midrash portrays the Torah as a beloved child with whom God is unable to truly part, such that giving the Torah to the Jewish people means that God will always want to maintain a residence among them. To Messianic Jewish ears, this parable also reflects God’s relationship with his beloved son, the living Torah, whom God offered to Israel as an act of covenant fidelity and a guarantee of all God’s promises. We who receive Yeshua as the promised Messiah do so only through a relationship of mutual giving with the God who seeks to live among us. 

How can we give anything to God today? The Malbim, a 19th-century European rabbi and commentator, applied the lesson of Parashat Terumah to our hearts: 

God commanded that each individual should build him a sanctuary in the recesses of his heart, that he should prepare himself to be a dwelling place for the Lord and a stronghold for the excellency of His Presence, as well as an altar on which to offer up every portion of his soul to the Lord, until he gives himself for His glory at all times.

Nearly two millennia earlier, Rav Shaul taught the same spiritual lesson, praying for some “that Messiah may dwell in your hearts through faith” (Eph 3:17), and encouraging others to “present [their] bodies as a living sacrifice” (Rom 12:1). Paul applied this lesson not only to individuals but also communally: “Don’t you know that you are God’s temple and that the Ruach Elohim dwells among you? . . . for God’s Temple is holy, and you are that Temple” (1 Cor 3:16, 17b).

What happens when God moves in next door? The relationship deepens through a mutuality of giving: God bestows teaching, wisdom, and blessing, and Israel celebrates by giving back that which rightfully belongs to her Maker: glory, honor, praise, and the finest things she has to offer. The presence of God in the Tent at the center of the camp thus points to a glorious reality: the presence of God at the center of our lives.

As we gather together each week in our synagogues, circling around humble yet beautiful arks in which we reverently store God’s lekach tov (the good teaching that he has given us), let us be continually inspired to live out the beautiful reality this points to: Imanu-El, God with us, graciously giving and receiving all that we offer up gratefully in love.

All Scripture references, unless otherwise noted , are from Tree of Life Version (TLV).

What Kind of Book Are You?

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1–24:18

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of a lawyer or judge who sits down and reads a law book in a leisurely way as if it were a novel? While possible, this is not the norm. Law books are usually a collection of laws or codes that have been systematized according to individual laws, so that a person doesn’t have to sit down and read the entire book to find what they are looking for. One can simply look up the laws that pertain to the subject with which they are dealing. This is the way the Torah has often been read. The various laws have been identified and analyzed and then systemized as regulations. This is a helpful way of categorizing and understanding the individual laws, but it wrests the covenant between Hashem and Israel out of its narrative framework, which establishes the relationship between God and Israel. Without the narrative link, the covenant, as articulated in Exodus 19–24, is devalued and read as another law book or law code, allowing the link between Israel and God to be severed.  

In Exodus chapters 1–18 Hashem initiates a relationship with Israel while we are still in bondage. He calls and brings Israel out of bondage so that we will know him as our God (Exod 6:6–7; 16:12). It is only after this relationship is established with Israel that Hashem regulates the relationship through the covenant and its statutes. The purpose of the covenant was not to bring people into relationship with Hashem, since that was already established, but to help Israel be a holy people set apart to him, by defining holy behavior (Exod 19:6).  

This week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, is known as the Book of the Covenant, Sefer Habrit. It contains the earliest collection of biblical laws. These laws and regulations, as well as the narration in the Book of the Covenant, depict Hashem as a moral, law-giving king who cares about every aspect of people’s lives. He is the God of justice who prohibits perjury and demands complete impartiality in court (21:1–3) and who distinguishes the guilt of intentional murder from unintentional manslaughter (21:12–13). He expects people to treat each other properly and for us to exhibit holy behavior (21:14–22:16). He even shows concern for what might be classified as disadvantaged classes of people—slaves, foreigners, widows, orphans, and the poor (22:17–23:19).  

This concern for the disadvantaged classes is a good example of the relationship between the narrative context and the actual laws. The first laws mentioned in Sefer Habrit are about slaves (21:2–11). This placement tells us that the treatment of slaves is a priority to Hashem. The further mention of slaves in Exodus 20:10; 21:20-21, 26-27, 32; and 23:12 reinforces the prominence of the issue. These laws about slaves relate to the central theme of the narratives in the first eighteen chapters of Exodus, the release of Israelite slaves from Egyptian bondage. In Exodus 22:22–23:9 Hashem extends his concern for slaves to others by providing regulations for social justice concerning the poor and sojourners. The specific laws in these verses begin and end with the sojourner, but they also include the widow, the orphan, and the poor. These are the very people who are most likely to become enslaved due to unpaid debts. Therefore, the narrative of Israel’s experience in Egypt is the basis for understanding these social-humanitarian regulations. 

It is easy for us to read Sefer Habrit as a systematized law code from which we can draw a law or statute and upon which we can build a list of dos and don’ts. We can learn about social justice, humanitarian outreach, and even holy behavior by reading the individual statutes. All of this is good, but how much more profitable it is when we draw upon their wider narrative context, which comes from a relationship with Hashem. The resulting benefits and blessings reach beyond this physical realm into the eternal one. Instead of promoting a rigid understanding and observance of covenantal laws, which can negatively affect our lives and relationships, placing the laws in their narrative context in Exodus, expands our relationships and changes our lives. Our hearts, concerns, and desires become more in line with Hashem’s because our observance stems from our relationship with him and flows to others. At the same time, lives lived in such a manner continue the narrative of Israel’s deliverance from bondage by Hashem’s outstretched arm (Exod 6:6) and further the kingdom of Heaven.  

Placing the covenantal laws and statutes in their narrative context allows us to see that the covenant is not a list of dos and don’ts but an expression of Hashem’s love, given to regulate the relationship between Israel and himself that was established when he brought us out of bondage. When observed through this relationship, the regulations bring freedom for us and others. Such a perspective helps to set our minds on the things of the Spirit so we can live according to the Spirit (Rom 8:5) and to transform us by the renewing of our minds (Rom 12:2).  

The story of our relationship with God is told through our lives, and our lives are the only book that some people will ever read about God. What kind of book do we want people to read from our lives—a law code or one that stems from and exhibits the same grace Hashem gave to Israel when he established a relationship with us? May the story of our lives reflect the grace and love relationship established by Hashem and enacted by Messiah Yeshua.

Photo by Danika Perkinson on Unsplash

What's Your Story?

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1–20:23

By Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, PhD

Parashat Yitro can aid us in better understanding how people come to faith in the God of Israel and his Messiah. That process is surprising and we have much to learn.

Relationship with people

In this story, as in the stories of many of our lives, relationship precedes faith. Yitro had a strong, trusting, and mutually respectful relationship with his son-in-law Moshe and with the people of Israel prior to his ever coming to faith in the God of Israel. As we shall see, the broad order of Yitro’s faith commitment was relationship with members of God’s community (Moshe, Tzipporah, and their children), faith in the God of Israel, and then ritual reception into that community.

This is a necessary lesson for those religiously zealous people who hold that “unbelievers” must not be given any communal standing or responsibilities until after they have made a faith commitment. This would mean making faith commitment prior to communal relationship. This bears reconsideration.

I am mindful of a couple in their sixties who came to my congregation at the suggestion of their out of state Yeshua-believing daughter. Let’s call them Jack and Jill. Now Jack and Jill knew they were not Yeshua-believers, and we knew that as well. But right off the bat we gave them communal responsibilities. Relationship was built. Spiritual information was exchanged. And in the fullness of time, both came to fully embrace what our community stood for, a condition that persists to this day. Relationship led to faith and that led to membership. That’s how it was for Jack and Jill, and that’s how it was for Yitro too.

People most often come to Yeshua-faith through discovering through the grapevine the story of our own encounters with God in Messiah, or otherwise through their direct relationship with us. Yitro had heard reports of God’s dealings through Tzipporah his daughter, and perhaps through his grandchildren, Gershom and Eliezer. He had also heard the reports of God’s goodness to Israel through travelers in the area. And in today’s parasha we see Moshe telling him his own story—his own experience with God, and the experience of the people of God in general. It ought to be the same way for us. People need to hear about the mighty works of God in our lives and our friends’ lives and connect these stories with the assurances given in Scripture, if they would grasp the reality of the God of Israel and of Yeshua’s claim to be Messiah.

Relationship with God

In coming to Yeshua-faith, people experience three encounters that bring them into a newly vital relationship with the God of Israel. We can see these encounters evident in Yitro’s encounter with Moshe.

1. A truth encounter – “I now believe this to be essentially true.”

2. A power encounter – “I now believe that the power of God as revealed in this religious culture is supreme, real, tangible and adequate.”

3. An allegiance encounter – “Now I know that the Lord is greater than all gods” (Exod 18:11).“

   • I now see something compelling about the character of God as you have encountered him and want to experience the impact of this truth and power in every aspect of my doing and being;”

   • “I want to know the personal Source behind this narrative, this community dynamic and this power;” and

   • “I am willing to walk through this doorway of new possibilities and new responsibilities, trusting in God and submitting to his rule in my life.”

   • “I renounce all other spiritual allegiances in submission to this God.”

These encounters take time to come together. We need to give people: 

• lots of exposure to our story, and the stories of God-encounters in the Bible and in our own community of faith;

• time and opportunity for them to invite God’s engagement with them as best they know how;

• prayerful support from ourselves and others.

So the question for us is a relational one. To what extent are we and our community members nurturing a vital relationship with God, and a warm relationship with people who need to seek him and find him more deeply? Do we have time for cultivating relationships, or are we “just too busy”? That says a mouthful. If we are too busy to cultivate real relationships with people and with God, then indeed, we are “too busy.”

And finally, how can we build bridges between our inquiring friends and others who know God in a warm way, who can share their stories with our friends as we also share our own? And how can we best build a bridge between those stories and the stories found in Scripture so that our friends discover that what we have found is grounded there, waiting for them to engage as well with the One who stands ready to engage with us?

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks said, “The world we build tomorrow is born in the stories we tell our children today.” The same is true of the world our friends will build. Tell them your story, introduce them to others and their stories, and introduce them to the stories in Scripture, which set the pattern for all of us.

And finally, remember the words of Elie Wiesel, “God created people because he loves stories.”

The Long Short Journey

Parashat Beshalach, Exodus 13:17–17:16

Rabbi Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel 

In today’s world, with the plethora of GPS apps on our phones, when we go on a journey we can select the settings that will give us the best route according to our desires. Sometimes we want the fastest route and sometimes the shortest route. When the Israelites left Egypt, however, they did not have a choice about their route. They moved according to Hashem’s plan. We can learn much that is applicable to our own life journey from the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion.  

Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer; for God said, “The people may have a change of heart when they see war and return to Egypt.” So God led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness at the Sea of Reeds. (Exod 13:17–18, NJPS)

First, note that God had a plan. Israel’s travels were led by Hashem. B’nei Israel, the children of Israel, would not be wandering aimlessly or haphazardly. They saw Hashem’s guidance literally in the pillar of cloud that led them by day and the pillar of fire that led them by night (Exod 13:21). The words spoken by Hashem to Israel centuries in the future through the prophet Jeremiah held true for B’nei Israel when they left Egypt: “‘For I am mindful of the plans I have made concerning you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for your welfare, not for disaster, to give you a hopeful future’” (Jer 29:11, NJPS).  

The second point is found in the statement, “God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer.” Often when we read this phrase, we associate the designation “land of the Philistines” with all the problems that Israel would have with the Philistines in the future. This application is problematic because it is an anachronism. The Philistines did not settle in the south of Canaan until about a hundred years after the Exodus. At the time of the Exodus, that route was called the Way of Horus and was rife with Egyptian fortresses. Considering the impending death of Pharaoh and his army at the Reed Sea (Exod 14:24ff), Israel would surely have faced military repercussions that would indeed have “changed the heart of the people.” Hashem was looking out for their welfare, something that he continues to do for all of his children. He protected them from a situation that they could not endure. Rav Shaul affirms this principle to the Yeshua-followers in Corinth. 

No temptation has taken hold of you except what is common to mankind. But God is faithful—He will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you can handle. But with the temptation He will also provide a way of escape, so you will be able to endure it. (1 Cor 10:13 TLV)

While the English word “temptation” usually carries the nuance of falling prey to sin or transgression, the word can also carry the connotation of trial or testing. In other words, Hashem did not allow B’nei Israel to fall subject to the trial of facing further military conflict; rather he provided a way of escape—he “led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness.”

Third, had B’nei Israel gone by the Way of Horus, they could have arrived in Caanan in a relatively short time, nine or ten days. However, the presence of the Egyptian military outposts would have probably caused the journey to take quite a bit longer. A talmudic tale attributed to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Ḥananya illustrates a similar point. 

One time I was walking along the path, and I saw a young boy sitting at the crossroads. And I said to him: On which path shall we walk in order to get to the city? He said to me: This path is short and long, and that path is long and short. I walked on the path that was short and long. When I approached the city, I found that gardens and orchards surrounded it, and I did not know the trails leading through them to the city. I went back and met the young boy again and said to him: My son, didn’t you tell me that this way is short? He said to me: And didn’t I tell you that it is also long? (b.Eruvin 53b)

Many of us, like Rabbi Ḥananya, want to finish our journey in the shortest amount of time. But as the rabbi discovered there are often detours or obstacles in our paths that lengthen our travels or derail them all together. Sometimes the detours or obstacles we face are well beyond our control. The Egyptian outposts and the testing they represented were in position, regardless of B’nei Israel’s presence or absence. Sometimes, however, just as with Israel, the obstacles or detours we face are of our own making. On B’nei Israel’s journey, taking the roundabout way from Egypt to Mount Horeb would have been roughly a three-day journey. From there, according to Deuteronomy 1:2, they should have continued on to Kadesh Barnea on the edge of the Wilderness of Zin, which is the southern entrance to Canaan, a trip that should have taken about eleven days. However, due to grumbling, complaining, and times of faithlessness, the potential two-week journey morphed into forty years (Deut 1:3). 

It is important to remember that regardless of the source of the obstacles or detours along our life’s journey, whether they are things beyond our control or because of our actions or inactions, Hashem always cares for us throughout the journey. Moshe reminded the second generation of B’nei Israel that throughout their arduous journey, neither their clothes nor their sandals wore out, and while they may not have had choice breads and wine, Hashem fed them manna, quail, and fresh water (Deut 29:4–5 [5–6]). So no matter where our life’s journey takes us or the path it travels, Hashem’s care for us never falters. He has a plan for each of us, a plan for our welfare and not for disaster to give each of us a hopeful future. 

Shabbat Shalom!

The Four Sons Meet Messiah

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1–13:16

Rabbi Russ Resnik 

It’s still mid-winter in most of the world, but our Torah readings this week and last remind us that Passover is not far off.  

Last week we reviewed the four-fold promise of redemption in Exodus 6, which we commemorate with the four cups of Passover. We saw that there’s a fifth promise, “I will bring you into the land that I swore to give to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob. I will give it to you for a possession. I am the Lord” (vs. 8). This week we read some verses that underlie the section in the Haggadah about four children who ask four different kinds of questions. The section opens, The Torah speaks of four sons—one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to ask.

The wise son (or daughter) reflects a verse in Deuteronomy, not Exodus. What does he ask? “What are the testimonies, statutes, and ordinances that Hashem our God has commanded you?” (Deut 6:20). In response, says the Haggadah, the father is to instruct him regarding the laws of Passover, down to the final detail: “After the Passover offering, no dessert is to be eaten.”  

The rest of the children appear in this week’s parasha. The wicked son speaks up in Exodus 12:26, asking: “What is this service to you?” When he says to you, he excludes himself, so the father is to answer, “It is for this that Hashem acted for me when I came out of Egypt” (Exod 13:8). The Haggadah comments: “For me, but not for him. Had he been there he would not have been redeemed.” Perhaps the rebuke will bring this son to repentance.  

The simple son says only, “What is this?” and the answer is simple too: “By strength of hand did Hashem bring us out from Egypt, the house of bondage” (Exod 13:14). And for the son who doesn’t know how to ask, the father initiates his instruction, as it is written, “And you shall relate to your son that day, saying ‘It is because of this that Hashem acted for me when I came out of Egypt’” (Exod 13:8). 

Years ago, the Jewish-Christian scholar David Daube noticed the similarity between the Four Children passage in the Haggadah and a passage in Mark chapter 12 (cited in William L. Lane The Gospel of Mark [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974], p. 421). The Four Children passage is very early, possibly already taking shape in the time of Yeshua. If Mark was aware of it in some form, it would have been appropriate for him to weave it into his narrative here in chapter 12, because we’re with Yeshua in Jerusalem just a few days before Passover. Yeshua has just told his parable of the vineyard and the tenants, and the scribes and elders “were seeking to arrest Yeshua but feared the people, for they perceived that he had told the parable against them. So they left him and went away” (12:12; see 11:27).   

Clearly, the Jewish population is divided, with the people supporting Yeshua against the rulers. As in the Haggadah, there are different types of “children” among the Jewish people of that day. In the section that follows in Mark Yeshua will be questioned by three different kinds of “children”:  

1. Some Pharisees and Herodians, who collaborate “to trap him in his talk” (12:13–17). Like the wise son, these Jews are interested in the Torah, in “the testimonies, statutes, and ordinances that Hashem our God has commanded,” and so they raise a legal question, a matter of halakha: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” (12:14). But their wisdom is compromised by hypocrisy—their not-so-hidden agenda of asking a question only in the hope that it will be a “gotcha” question for Yeshua.  

2. Some Sadducees, who think they can stump Yeshua with a theological conundrum (12:18–27). Like the wicked son (and unlike the Pharisees and Herodians above) they are defined by a negative; “they say there is no resurrection” (12:18). The Haggadah says of the wicked son, “Had he been there [in Egypt], he would not have been redeemed.” Likewise the Sadducees cut themselves off from redemption by their denial of the supernatural hand of God.

3. A certain scribe, who asks an honest question and gives a wise response (12:28–34). The simple son is not ignorant, but tam in Hebrew, that is, pure and guileless, as Rashi says, “One who is not quick to deceive is called tam.” The scribe is simple and straightforward in his question and his response, and Yeshua tells him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God” (12:34).

For the one who does not know how to ask, the Haggadah instructs the father to initiate the discussion, and Yeshua follows this pattern as he raises a question of his own:

How can the scribes say that the Messiah is the son of David? David himself, in the Holy Spirit, declared,

The Lord said to my Lord,
“Sit at my right hand,
    until I put your enemies under your feet.”

David himself calls him Lord. So how is he his son?” And the great throng heard him gladly. (Mark 12:35–37)

I’m writing this drash in part as a corrective to the common practice of viewing the Jews in the gospel accounts as a monolithic, anti-Yeshua, religious-political bloc. In reality, the Jewish population as Mark portrays it is diverse, with the crowds amazed by Yeshua and hearing him gladly, even if they’re not quite sure who he is. And Yeshua responds to his diverse people in diverse ways, always seeking their final redemption. Like the Four Children of the Haggadah, all Jews are part of Israel, all worthy of an answer, even if the wicked among us might need an answer in the form of a rebuke calling us back to repentance. Whether wise or wicked or in-between, I believe there are many among us today of whom Yeshua would say, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

Photo: Six13.com  

People of the Land

Parashat Va’era, Exodus 6:2–9:15

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

During the Passover Seder we drink four cups of wine. This is a very old tradition dating back to the Mishnah (Pesachim 10) where a minimum of four cups is prescribed. Our Sages over the centuries have given various reasons why there are four cups.

Yerushalmi (the Jerusalem Talmud) provides one opinion, which is that it is related to the number of times that the word “cup” is mentioned in Genesis 40.  Pharaoh's cupbearer relates his dream to Joseph by saying, “Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand, and I took the grapes, squeezed them into Pharaoh’s cup and put the cup in his hand.” Joseph tells him that the dream means that he will be restored to his position and once again place Pharaoh’s cup in his hand. 

Yerushalmi records another opinion which says that the four cups refer to the four empires that will oppress Israel after Egypt, and that the cups point to God’s wrath that will also pour out on them. 

The Vilna Gaon (an 18th-century Lithuanian rabbi) taught that the cups relate to four different worlds; this world, the world of the Messiah, the world of the resurrection of the dead, and the World to Come (Olam Ha-Ba). He stated that the one who fulfills the mitzvah of all four cups at the Seder is assured to inherit all of these worlds. 

The Maharal (a 16th-century rabbi in Prague, of the Golem of Prague fame, connected the four cups to Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah, because it was through their merit that the Jewish people were born and redeemed.

Yerushalmi also connects the four cups to God’s four-fold declaration of redemption contained in this week’s parasha. In Exodus 6:6-7, God says: 

1. I shall take you out from under the burdens of Egypt

2. I shall save you from their slave labor

3. I shall redeem you with an outstretched arm

4. I shall take you to myself as a nation

This is perhaps the most widely known opinion and the one most commonly referenced in haggadot.  

Most people are familiar with the Cup of Elijah, which is placed on the Seder table and looks forward to the ultimate redemption brought about by Elijah’s announcement of the coming Messiah. At the Seder we all stand as someone checks to see if Elijah has come and then we sing the song “Eliyahu Ha-Navi.” As Messianic Jews, we of course understand that Elijah did come as Yochanan the Immerser, who prepared the way for Yeshua’s debut on the world stage.  

What many people may not be familiar with is that this cup is related to a fifth declaration of redemption made by Hashem in that same passage. In verse 8 he says “… and I shall bring you to the land.” He indeed did bring us to the land that he promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, but centuries later we lost that land and the Temple. We do not drink of the fifth cup today as we await that ultimate and final redemption when Messiah Yeshua will return us to the Promised Land permanently and reign as King. 

We Jews are often referred to as People of the Book, but we could just as equally be called the People of the Land. Our fate is inextricably intertwined with Hashem and the land he promised us as his priestly nation. This is expressed in the Amidah, which we pray three times daily. Its crescendo lies in the three petitions calling upon God to return us to the Land, rebuild the Temple, and restore the Davidic Kingdom.  

Another expression of this intrinsic connection to the Land is found in a commentary in Midrash Rabbah on last week’s parasha. It asks why Joseph merited being buried in Israel while Moses did not. The answer is that Joseph throughout his life repeatedly referred to himself as a Hebrew, whereas Moses allowed himself to be called by Yitro’s daughters an “ish mitzri,” an Egyptian (Exodus 2:19). Our very identity as Jews is tied to the Land and one who denies this or hides it, according to the Midrash, doesn’t deserve the Land. 

I recently read a story about a group of American Jews who greeted a famous rabbi in Jerusalem. He asked them where they were from and they answered with the various cities in the US where they lived. He replied to them, “No. You are citizens of Israel who happen to currently live in New York, Chicago, or Detroit.” 

You often hear Christians say that they are “heaven-bound” or “citizens of heaven.” This latter phrase is a reference to Philippians 3:20 and says that they are merely sojourners in this world but really belong to the Kingdom of Heaven. Such a sentiment is commendable, but it also ignores the fact that we are not actually destined for heaven but for a renewed Creation with Israel and Jerusalem at its center. (It may also be an example of supersessionist “sanitizing” of Israel from the salvation story.) This destination is clearly foretold in passages such as Zechariah 14, where the nations will celebrate Sukkot alongside Israel, and Yochanan’s Revelation, where a New Jerusalem descends from heaven and becomes the Temple itself with God and Messiah Yeshua at its center. 

We Jews are not heaven-bound, we are Israel-bound. The Kingdom of Heaven, in fact, has Jerusalem as its capital. It is the place where Israel and those from the nations joined to it through faith in Yeshua will worship Hashem and Messiah Yeshua for eternity.

Every year we fill the fifth cup and look for Elijah’s coming, hoping that this year will be the year that sees Messiah’s return. Every year we sing not only Elijah’s song but also L’shanah ha-ba’ah b’Yerushalayim (Next Year in Jerusalem). This is not expressing our desire to get on a plane and celebrate in Jerusalem next year, but that Messiah will come and we will all be in Jerusalem with him in joyous celebration; when we will be returned to the Land that is so intertwined with our fate as Jews. May we merit to see its coming, soon and in our days!

Who Saved Moses?

Parashat Shemot, Exodus 1:1 - 6:1

By Monique B, UMJC Executive Director

Before Moshe could save the Jewish people, six women saved his skin. In the opening pages of Exodus, when Moshe finally gets to tell his own story, he takes special care to honor the women to whom he owes his very existence.  

First there is a pair of midwives, Shifrah and Puah. Pharaoh commands them to murder Jewish boys as soon as they are born. This runs against their very nature as midwives. These women delight in welcoming life, not extinguishing it. So they engage in creative forms of resistance, quietly delivering Jewish boys to life, covering up the evidence of their birth, and lying to Pharaoh all along: “These Hebrew women are baby delivery machines! We can’t get there fast enough before POOF, another baby shoots out!” Thanks to Shifrah and Puah, Moshe’s life is not threatened on his very first day. Instead, the real threats come three months later.

Then there is Moshe’s mother, the woman who gave him life. Yocheved, a daughter of Levi, gives birth to her third and final child. The boy is beautiful, she tries to hide him. At three months old, his cries grow too loud. So she engages in her own creative form of resistance, just like Shifrah and Puah before her. Pharaoh’s decree, remember, was that all Jewish baby boys should be thrown into the Nile. She puts her little boy in the Nile, but protects him in a waterproof box slathered with pitch. The word for this box is teva, the same word for Noah’s rudderless ark in Genesis.

Next comes Miriam, Moshe’s sister, who watches over him carefully as his waterborne cradle rests in the reeds of the Nile. And along comes the daughter of the very Pharaoh whose evil decree had created this predicament. What does she discover in the waters of the Nile, but a helpless Jewish baby boy! How does she know he’s Jewish? A quick check inside the diaper would make this clear. Moshe begins to cry, and she has compassion on him.   

Miriam springs into action, jumping into the royal entourage with a brilliant and timely suggestion: “Would you like me to find a Jewish wet nurse for this child?” “Go,” says Pharaoh’s daughter. There is urgency to her command, as newborns must eat every two to three hours to survive. Miriam fetches Yocheved, and Pharaoh’s daughter makes a brilliant, life-honoring proposal which begins with a subversive turn of phrase: “heliki et hayeled hazeh” can be translated as “take this child” but, as Rashi observes, it also means in a subtle way “this child belongs to you.” Here, Pharaoh’s daughter honors what is true, that this is the child’s true mother. She commands Yocheved to nurse her own son, she will even pay her wages, and bring the boy to live in the palace when he’s ready to be weaned.  

Imagine a soldier barging into Yocheved’s home in search of male Jewish babies. “Get out of here!” Amram can say. “This is a ward of the palace. My wife is nursing this child for the daughter of Pharaoh. If you touch this child, you will surely be executed.” Imagine Hitler’s daughter doing the same thing – hiding or providing for a helpless Jewish child, adopting it as her own, using her proximity to power to protect the redeemer of Israel, even as her father burns the whole world down.  

It’s precisely because her actions are so extraordinary that Pharaoh’s daughter receives two distinct honors. The first is the honor of naming Moshe, who is forever remembered by the name chosen by his royal redeemer: “Moshe, because I drew him from the water” (Exod 2:10). The second honor she receives is a new name for herself, Batya (or Bithia). You’ll find reference to this in the 4th chapter of 1 Chronicles, where we learn that she later married a man from the tribe of Judah named Mered. It’s an extraordinary honor – because she saves Moshe, Bat-Pharoah becomes Bat-Yah. The daughter of an anti-Semitic despot becomes a daughter of the God of Israel.   

The final woman to save Moshe’s life is his Midianite wife, Zipporah. Moshe first saves her life by scaring away a group of shepherds encroaching on her father’s land. He is rewarded with her hand in marriage. Zipporah returns the favor while they are en route to Egypt. They are sleeping at an inn when God comes to kill Moshe. Why does the same God who just gave Moshe redemptive marching orders and a stick full of magic tricks suddenly want to kill him? Zipporah figures it out – because the man who is to serve as the redeemer of all Israel has not bothered to circumcise his own son! This is the most basic entry-level mitzvah, and Moshe has failed in his duty to perform it. So she takes on the task herself.  

She’s not a skilled mohel who has done this many times, and can manage the procedure painlessly. So there must have been plenty of blood, screaming, and tears – both from the wounded child and the traumatized mother. No wonder she throws the foreskin at Moshe’s feet and expresses her disgust: “You are truly a groom of blood to me. A groom of blood because of this circumcision” (Exod 4:25). Her meaning is clear – I’ll never forgive you for making me hurt my own son to save your hypocritical life. At this point their marriage appears to disintegrate. Zipporah doesn’t go to Egypt with Moshe; she likely returns to her father Yitro.  

It’s curious that Moshe includes this scene depicting the very worst day of his marriage, and doesn’t give himself the last word in their argument. A more vainglorious hero writing his autobiography would invent some excuse for his oversight, or find a way to make his estranged wife seem crazy. But this is what sets the Hebrew Bible apart from other ancient epics like the Iliad or the Egyptian Story of Senehat. The Bible is not afraid of revealing its heroes’ personal shortcomings, neither does it gloss over some very colorful marital spats. 

I find myself very moved by the women of Parashat Shemot, and grateful that Moshe took the time to honor them in the opening pages of his autobiography. There’s a very clear message: I cannot tell you my own story without first telling theirs. I would be nothing without these women. The Jewish people would still be enslaved in Egypt if not for these women. Remember them as I do. 

What all these women have in common is their willingness to engage in subversive action to save and preserve life. Shifrah and Puah spin tall tales to protect their tiniest patients. Yocheved finds a way to put her baby boy in the Nile without actually drowning him. Miriam finds a way to ensure that Moshe can return to his biological family alive and politically protected. Batya finds a way to save a baby marked for slaughter by her own father by hiring the child’s own mother. And Zipporah finds a way to save her husband from death by substituting for him, performing the act he should have performed when his son was given life.  

Later in the book of Exodus, the men confront injustice, and they do it in masculine ways, through conflict, palace intrigue, plagues, and war. But until that day comes, the women must confront injustice the only way they can, by finding loopholes, telling lies, whispering secrets, and saving lives. May their subversive and courageous acts serve as continued inspiration to us today.

The Never-Ending Story

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

Note: This week, as we are reading Parashat Vayechi, the United States is honoring the memory of President Jimmy Carter, who passed away on January 5. In Israel the country mourns hostage Youssef al-Zidayne, whose body was discovered in a Gaza tunnel on January 8, along with evidence that his son Hamza was also dead. In their honor, and in honor of the fallen soldiers of the IDF, we post this commentary on Parashat Vayechi, originally published in January 2020.

We all like a good story. Stories are an integral part of our lives. They are part of our culture, our family values, and our faith. Bible stories are known as narratives. We’ve all heard the term biblical narrative, or canonical narrative, or the patriarchal narratives. Why are these biblical stories called narratives? The answer lies in the distinction between a story and a narrative. A story has a distinct beginning, middle and end. The tension in a story is resolved before the last page, and once the story is resolved, it is more or less over. On the other hand, a narrative is a collection or system of stories that together paint a larger narrative. Episodes or stories within a narrative may be resolved, but the narrative itself continues. The power of a narrative lies in the connection between the stories contained within it.  

Take, for example, the biblical narrative (Genesis–Revelation). It starts at creation; continues with Hashem’s election of, and interactions with, Israel through Moshe, Joshua, the judges, the kings and the prophets; and looks to a future eschatological era, which Yeshua proclaims and initiates through his teaching and actions but does not fully actualize. Thus, the biblical narrative has not reached a resolution and closure, but continues to look forward to a future age. We see the same in the Patriarchal narratives. Hashem promises Abraham that he will inherit the Land (Gen 12:7; 15:7; 15:18–21) and reaffirms this with Jacob (Gen 28:13), but by the end of the Torah the promise has not yet been fulfilled; the Children of Israel are still on the other side of the Jordan River.  

The Book of Genesis draws to a close in this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi. In this final parasha of Genesis, three distinct narratives converge: the patriarchal period (Abraham, Isaac and Jacob), the Jacob narrative, and the Joseph biography. The patriarchal narrative begins with the calling of Abraham and the divine promise of nationhood (Gen 12:2), which is passed on to the twelve tribes of Israel at the end of Jacob’s farewell words to his sons in Genesis 49:28. The Jacob narrative also commences with a promise from Hashem that Jacob would have numerous offspring (Gen 28:14) and fittingly concludes with the death-bed scene of the dying Jacob surrounded by his sons and grandsons passing on this promise to them (Gen 49:1–33).  

Joseph’s narrative begins and ends with the complicated relationship between him and his brothers. The story progresses from Joseph’s bad reports to his father about the sons of the concubines (Gen 37:2), to his brother’s hatred and selling him into slavery (Gen 37:4, 18–38), to his promotion to viceroy of Egypt (Gen 41:41) and his interactions with his brothers there (Gen 42:3–44:33), to the revelation of his identity (Gen 45:1–5) and their reconciliation after Jacob’s death (Gen 50:16–21). Though Joseph’s story will end at his death, the narrative continues. On his deathbed Joseph expresses his firm belief to his brothers that God will fulfill the promises given to Abraham and Jacob that their descendants will return to the land of Canaan, and he makes them promise to take his bones with them when they return. Joseph dies, is embalmed and the people mourn, but he remains in Egypt for another 360 years before he is finally buried in the Promised Land. While the Book of Genesis closes with the death of Joseph, the narrative continues, looking forward to the future resolution of promises and unresolved issues.  

These three narratives in Vayechi are replete with connections that tie the biblical narrative together and move it forward. In addition to those mentioned above, Jacob’s choice of Ephraim over Manasseh is another important connection. The prominence of the second son over the first is a literary convention that runs through the biblical narrative. Adam had two sons, Cain and Abel; the younger’s sacrifice is accepted. Abraham had two sons, Ishmael and Isaac; the second is the son of promise. Isaac had two sons, Esau and Jacob; Jacob is the father of the twelve tribes that became the nation of Israel. Jacob’s younger son Joseph had two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim, whom Jacob adopted as his own; the younger receives the primary blessing. By the time of the Judges the name Ephraim is synonymous with the Northern Kingdom of Israel.  

The prominence of the second son brings to mind a parable told by Yeshua: “A man had two sons” (Luke 15:11). A man with two sons recalls the stories of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, where the second or younger is the recipient of the greater blessing. Can you imagine the shock of the original listeners when Yeshua relates that the younger son is the one who strayed? When the younger son returns and is warmly greeted by his father, he acknowledges his sin. Joseph’s brothers, on the other hand, do not seek forgiveness but remain silent when Joseph reveals his identity to them (Gen 45:1–5). When Jacob, whom the brothers see as their protection, is about to die, the family cohesion falls apart and the brothers anticipate Joseph’s revenge. Yet, Joseph initiates reconciliation and forgiveness, telling them that God intended everything that happened to him for good, for the survival of many people. As with Jacob’s sons, the relationship between the older and younger brother in the parable is strained and the family cohesion is falling apart. Unlike Jacob’s sons, the parable does not complete the story. Did the brothers reconcile? Did the older son choose reconciliation like Joseph? The parable is left open- ended for the audience to resolve from their own lives. Joseph’s actions and interactions with his brothers demonstrate an excellent resolution to the parable. 

Our lives are narratives. We do not know how they will end, but the decisions we make along the way and how we interpret those events influence the future. Our narrative will continue long past our physical lives have ended, intertwined with the lives of others and with the larger biblical narrative of the Kingdom of Heaven. Let’s be like Joseph and choose forgiveness, reconciliation, love, and God’s will over silence.