The Barren Place of the Word

Parashat B’midbar, Numbers 1:1–4:20

Rabbi Russ Resnik

 We’re doing a lot of counting these days.

The numbers of those afflicted with COVID-19, those who have succumbed to the disease, and those who have recovered, are tabulated and posted daily, as are the numbers projected for these categories in the near future. We’re also counting facemasks, ventilators, hospital beds, and the likely span of months or years before we have a vaccine. Lots of numbers! And it’s all happening in the year 2020, as the USA is taking the head-count mandated for every ten years in our Constitution.

In this setting we commence our reading of the fourth book of the Torah, B’midbar, and immediately confront . . . another head count. The Lord commands Moses, “Take a census of all the congregation of the people of Israel, by clans, by fathers’ houses, according to the number of names, every male, head by head” (Num 1:2). Rashi notes the date of this command, given in verse 1, “the first day of the second month [Iyar],” and comments:

Because they were dear to Him, He counted them often. When they left Egypt, He counted them (Exod 12:37); when many fell because of the golden calf, He counted them to know the number of the survivors (Exod 32:28); [and now] when He came to cause His Divine Presence to rest among them, He counted them. On the first of Nissan, the Mishkan was erected [Exod 40:1], and on the first of Iyar [one month later], He counted them.  

It’s a lovely picture of God as a man who counts and recounts his treasure because it is so precious to him—and the treasure is his people, us. But Rashi, as he often does, seems to be answering an unstated question here. Centuries after Moses, David decides (or is actually incited by the Lord) to “number Israel and Judah” and incurs God’s judgment for doing so (2 Sam 24:1, 10–14). So, why is one sort of census commanded in the Torah, and another condemned? Rashi looks for motive, whether the head-count arises out of God’s love and adds to his glory, or out of ill-conceived human desire.

When David orders his chief-of-staff Joab to conduct the head-count, Joab objects: “May the Lord your God add to the people a hundred times as many as they are, while the eyes of my lord the king still see it, but why does my lord the king delight in this thing?” (2 Sam 24:3). Joab, not always the paragon of godliness, gets it right this time. He contrasts head-counting with simple trust in God. We might wonder how much of our coronavirus head-counting is driven by anxiety, which ultimately is lack of trust in God. Yes, the numbers will help formulate our response to the pandemic, but there’s also something reassuring about reducing the chaos to statistics, even if the statistics change day by day. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the Lord tells Moses to take a census b’midbar, “in the wilderness,” a threatening and scary place, a “great and awesome desert, in which were fiery serpents and scorpions and thirsty land where there was no water” (Deut 8:15). Israel is about to spend an entire generation in this desert (although they don’t know it yet), and so God provides a sense of order by decreeing a head-count before they set out. 

But wilderness in Scripture isn’t only a dangerous and imposing place, it’s also a place of heightened encounter with God. We’re in Parashat B’midbar, but the first word of our parasha isn’t B’midbar, it’s Vaydaber: Yaydaber Hashem el Moshe b’midbar Sinai—“And the Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai.” Of course, Vaydaber is one of the most common terms in Torah, where the Lord is speaking throughout. We wouldn’t expect our parasha to be named after this word, but we shouldn’t miss this word’s significance here either.

In the wilderness God speaks. The Hebrew word for wilderness, midbar, hints at this truth. We can detect in this word the Hebrew root dabar – meaning “word” or “speak”, as in vaydaber. The first letter in midbar, mem, is prefixed to some Hebrew words to signify “place”, as in mikdash—kadash or “holy” preceded by mem to signify “holy place”—or mishkan, the tabernacle or “place of shakhan, dwelling” that Rashi mentions above. And so we can imagine midbar as the place of the word. Wilderness is the place where God speaks. In this barren setting the normal props to human pride and comfort fall away. Our usual distractions are missing. Its very hostility toward the human suits wilderness as the place to hear the divine word.

The earliest account of the life of Messiah opens in the desert. John is “the voice of one crying in the wilderness” foretold by the prophet Isaiah (Mark 1:3). Like Moses, John calls the Israelites out to the wilderness to encounter God. They prepare for the encounter by immersing in the Jordan and confessing their sins. Yeshua also goes out to John in the desert and is also immersed, and then goes farther into the desert to be tempted (Mark 1:12–13). After his temptation he goes back to the villages and towns of Israel, but he continually returns to the desolate place or wilderness to seek God and pray (Mark 1:35, 45). As the story goes on, Yeshua takes his followers—us!—out to a desolate place as well (Mark 6:31). Yeshua and his band will continue to serve the needs of the people in towns and villages, but they also withdraw at times to be close with God.

In the wilderness God speaks. Torah is teaching us that it is in places of uncertainty, challenge, and temptation that we find God. The uncertainty we’re facing today can become the source of new understanding and nearness to God. Messiah has already ventured forth into this wilderness and he beckons us to follow him there.  

The Hero’s Journey Home

Parashat Behar-Bechukotai, Leviticus 25:1 - 27:34

by David Wein, Tikvat Israel Messianic Synagogue, Richmond, VA

The month was May, and the year was 2019, so it was . . . last year. Those were, of course, simpler times. Sonya and I drove up to Maryland to visit Beth Messiah. For Parshat Emor, I shared a sermon on the Brit Hadashah portion in John 10; I became a shepherd complete with matching staff:

My wife, Sonya, and I spent a great oneg and Shabbat afternoon schmoozing with the folks, and then I dropped her off at a train heading back home to Richmond.

 I kept waving and ran after the train, much to the delight of Sonya and her newly introduced traveling buddies. It would be two weeks until I saw her again. I was going on a quest, my own hero’s journey. I would travel to an alien realm (New England), where I would acquire a mentor (or a few), suffer some minor trials, become transformed, and return home to my beloved. At least, that’s how I view it now, having since taken a class with Rabbi Russ Resnik, who’s quite into these sorts of literary paradigms.  

Beth Messiah was just the first stop. I continued up to New Jersey, where I figured if I couldn’t be with my wife, I could at least be with her family. Seeing Sonya’s family was beyond encouraging, as always; they prayed a blessing on my journey as I continued onward. Though I was a little sad saying goodbye to my bride, the prayers of her family enlivened my heart.  

The next day I picked up Rabbi Ben Volman, who had flown into Newark Airport just a few minutes away. We had our own hero’s adventure that day consisting of an authentic Jewish deli (these are few and far between in Richmond), George Washington’s Headquarters (a historic site), and eventually a Jewish retreat center in Connecticut.  

It was here that I would spend a few days doing a Midrash study on Song of Songs with many of my mentors and colleagues, led by the inimitable Rav Carl Kinbar.

 At the same time I was excited to be doing text study, I was also confronted with some of my insecurities; learning alongside many of my teachers was intimidating at times. However, being in Jewish space, surrounded by some of my favorite people, eating in a kosher kitchen, studying Jewish texts—there was much to be thankful for. The only part that made me sad was being without my wife. This was the longest period we had ever been apart, and I shared with her every day all the cool things I was experiencing and learning.

 After that, I spent a few days staying with Rabbi Paul Saal, and spent some time with him and his family. I had the honor of sharing a Devar Torah with his community the following Shabbat. It was the same as this week’s Torah portion, and I spoke about the Realm of Holiness.  

The parasha starts off by explaining the year of the yovel, sometimes translated as Jubilee, but I like the way Everett Fox renders it: Homebringing. The basic idea of the sermon was that God’s realm is holy and good, and Shabbat, Yom Kippur, the Jubilee, the Tabernacle, the Messiah, these are all part of his plan for the holy realm to intercept the earth, as it was in Eden. Here is an excerpt from the sermon I gave at Shuvah Yisrael in Connecticut:

The year of the yovel is described in a few places, but here, the combination of Atonement and Shabbat is in play. First, every seven years the land itself gets to rest, to reset. Then, just as the Holy of Holies gets a reset for Yom Kippur, the whole land of Israel gets a reset for Jubilee. The Realm of Hashem rests and resets. But the emphasis here is a moral reset, where enslavement is obliterated, What happens to indentured servants? They are released. What happens to evicted families? They return home.  

The principle here, expressed a few lines down, is that the land belongs to Israel only in a sense. Who is the real owner of the land of Israel? Hashem owns the land, it is his realm, his dominion, which he has given to the people of Israel to steward. Verse 23 reminds us of this central theme: “The land is mine; you are nothing but strangers and residents within it.”

“But, David,” I hear you protesting: “I thought the land was a promise connected to the covenant with Abraham? God will bless our descendants and bring us into the land so that all nations will be blessed through Abraham’s descendants. So isn’t the land ours?” The promise has a purpose: mediating blessing through Israel. This is the ultimate purpose of Hashem for the people and the land, but the history contains examples of the land vomiting out the people, due to what? Idol worship and gross immorality and mistreatment of the poor. This should not surprise us: an unclean people who defile the land cannot abide in it, for the land is Kadosh. Because of the mercy of Hashem, Exile always gives way to Return. The land is God’s, and he has given it to Israel to garden, to shepherd, to enact restoration, and to worship Him alone. And even when we mess it up and are cast out of the holy realm, he always brings us back, or even sometimes brings it back to us.  

And so, here we see the ultimate goal: restorative justice because the realm of God belongs to God. The land is his, and more importantly, the people are his. On this special Yom Kippur, every 49 years, we get a reset from moral and economic pollution, so that the whole land is Kadosh.  

Isn’t this the idea of Shabbat? Every seven days, we reset, and we enter the holy realm not of space, but of what? Time. Every seven years, and every 49 years, the land and people reset like Eden, in the abode of God.

That’s why I like the word “homebringing” for yovel. In this case, I found Eden to be breaking into the alien realm of New England. The end of the hero’s journey, the end of my journey, and the end of all our journeys, is either bringing us back to Eden, or bringing Eden back to us. In other words, the realm of heaven breaks into the realm of earth, as with the tabernacle.  Home, Exile, and Return. This is one of the principles underneath the Jubilee narrative, and the Torah as a whole. The other principle is that everything we have and everything we are belong to God. Our journey, our work, our possessions, our spouses, our children, our parents, our lives—they all belong to him; we’re just leasing them, stewarding them. The realms of heaven and earth belong to God, which of course is the opening line of the Torah. These two principles lead to deeper trust, deeper shalom.  

While I was still up north, I went to my 15-year college reunion in Connecticut, hung out with my old prayer buddy from college, and drove back toward home. I first saw my beloved again at a Tikkun conference in Maryland. We ran to each other like the final scene of some romantic comedy, or perhaps an epic adventure. And even though I hadn’t yet reached Richmond, home had come to me.  

The Blemished and the Whole

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1–24:23

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

For decades, Western society has been making concerted efforts to be more accepting and inclusive of those who have physical and mental disabilities. This means that accommodations must be made for impediments that have historically restricted people from living fully integrated into the greater society. In the past most of “civilized” society dealt with others’ handicaps by turning a blind eye. At best, the disabled were treated with dismissive sympathies and self-congratulatory charity; at worst they were often blamed for their disabilities and pushed to the margins of society. Only recently has the conversation turned toward treating those with disabilities as fully enfranchised members of society, rather than isolating them and consigning them to lives of degradation and exclusion.

Scripture also speaks of such disabilities through a complex balance of values, priorities, and perceptions. On the one hand, many of the heroes of the Bible suffered from physical and mental handicaps. Jacob limped, Isaac was blind, Moses had a speech impediment (and a fragile ego), Miriam dealt with dermatological concerns, and Saul clearly had bouts of depression and possibly psychosis. Rav Shaul dealt with some type of ailment but preferred to refer to it as “a thorn in the flesh,” leaving us to wonder about his issues of deep shame. What is most important to acknowledge is that these leaders were able to function in exemplary fashion.

But the narrative of Scripture is neither simple nor always inclusive. The parasha for this week, Emor, seems to prefer “wholeness” of both sacrifice and those who presented the sacrifice. The sacrifice could not suffer from any mum (defect) or it would be disqualified! This is an exclusion that I would imagine brought little complaint from the animal community of ancient Israel. But what I find most disturbing on its face is the disqualification of any kohen (priest) who exhibits permanent physical malady. “Any man of your offspring throughout their generations in whom there is a blemish shall not come near to offer food of his God” (Vayikra 21:17). The really troubling part is the elaboration that follows. Those who are blind, those who are lame are excluded. Then it gets personal! If your arm or leg is too long or too short, if you suffer from spine curvature or dwarfism, a scar, scurvy, or crushed testes you are eliminated!

It would be nice to dismiss this as merely a product of its time, but because it is part of the Holy Torah it must be addressed, and we should examine the legacy it has had on historical Judaism and perhaps even the taint it has left on the broader society. We cannot deny that this passage and others have lent a kind of legitimacy to the dehumanization of the disabled. Rabbinic legislation at one time forbade the disabled from participating as fully enfranchised members of Jewish society, either by functioning as acceptable witnesses in legal proceedings or by being part of a minyan. Why? Because Torah said so! Thank God this has been rethought, but in order to wash away the impure legacy of such thinking we need to continue to discuss and dismiss it as the intent of Torah.

There is another way, then, to understand this portion of Torah. Rather than merely seeing the service of the kohen as the privilege of the gifted, we might instead see it as the responsibility of the “whole” to the “broken.” Many commentators have noted, as I have, the relationship between the exclusions of the sacrifice and those of the kohanim. They are precisely the same. Sefer HaChinuch, a 13th-century exposition on the 613 commandments, notes, “There are disfigurements that disqualify a kohen from serving, and if they are in an animal they disqualify it from being brought as an offering.” There is an indelible relationship between the animal that will perish on the altar and the one who takes its life. The slaughterer is forced to identify with the terror of the sacrificed animal and to perform the unsavory task of exchanging one life for another. It should also be noted that while specific disfigurements may prevent one from being the slaughtered or the slaughterer, they never prevent any person in the ranks of Israel from bringing a sacrifice. So, it is the unfortunate task of both unblemished animal and unblemished kohen to provide restitution and restoration for those who are blemished.

It is also helpful to consider the expanded meaning of the Hebrew word mum, blemish. In the Bible mum refers to moral as well as physical blemishes (see Deut 32:5, where it is often translated crooked or warped). It is used extensively in this sense in the Talmud: “Do not ascribe to your fellow your own blemish” (BM 59b). If a man falsely accused someone of being a slave, it was evident that he himself was a slave, since “a person stigmatizes another with his own blemish” (Kid 70b). So we might further understand that while it is really only the morally “unblemished” that can offer redemption to the “blemished,” it is actually the responsibility of the “whole” to bring “wholeness” to the otherwise “broken.” A denial of such responsibility, and the stigmatizing of others, might just be a justification for our own deepest sense of “brokenness.”

It is no wonder then that when Yeshua was confronted by self-righteous pietists concerning the rather blemished company that he kept, he responded by saying, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners” (Mark 2:17, Luke 5:31, Matt 9:12). Yeshua does not challenge the health of those who dismiss the health of others, but reminds them if they have received the gift of health, then they are indeed responsible for those who have not. In the same way that he is both kohen and sacrifice, he beckons us to follow him and live sacrificially daily (Luke 9:23).

We as they are challenged to see that we are all to some degree handicapped. We all must confront our weaknesses, our inabilities, and our injuries, both physical and emotional. But if we are willing to be honest and acknowledge our brokenness we can be made whole and bring wholeness to others.

This commentary originally appeared in this series in May 2017.

The Choice Point

Parashat Acharei Mot-K’doshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

By Ben Volman, Kehillat Eytz Chaim, Toronto

This week’s combined reading of Acharei Mot and K’doshim leads us just past the middle of the Torah into the second half of Leviticus, which has been called “The Law of Holiness” (or the Holiness Code). There are few lines of Scripture more uncompromising than the opening verses of K’doshim: “You are to be holy as I the Lord your God am holy” (19:2). Is this truly possible? Most of us would probably settle for “faithful,” or perhaps, “devout.” But holy? It seems an impossible ideal: parush, utterly “set apart.” We ought to be wary given that whole class of Yeshua’s contemporaries named P’rushim—the “set apart” Pharisees. He told us to listen to what they say and observe their lives. “But don’t do what they do” (Matthew 23:2). (Their own writings reveal the P’rushim were equally critical of each other.)

As a congregational leader, I’m often encouraging “survivors” struggling with mid-life faith—more likely to think of “being holy” as something to aim at well down the road, probably when they’re closer to heaven. Some are feeling this struggle even more intently during the COVID-19 pandemic while they’re socially distant from their faith family, coping with physical isolation. Along the pathway of years with lots of years to go, we easily lose the passion of our “first love.”  

There’s a name for feeling stuck in the middle. Rosabeth M. Kanter, a Harvard professor posting in a well-known 2009 Harvard Business Review blog, called it: “the miserable middle of change.” She wrote, “Everyone loves inspiring beginnings and happy endings: it is the middles that involve hard work.” Dr. Kanter saw frequent evidence of the problem when institutions were trying to change and then more poignantly saw the effects while working with a team facing a mid-point crisis at an African solar cell project during the Ebola epidemic: “Tragically, it’s an unhappy ending for some . . . but for most, it’s a choice point. Do you give in and give up? Or do you find ways to get through . . . making needed adjustments, helping those who need help, but keeping your longer-term purpose in mind?” 

It’s just past the middle of the year. We’ve just finished Passover, and yet this parasha points us toward the themes of holiness and even the details of Yom Kippur, our “holiest day of the year,” right in the opening chapter of Acharei Mot. So this is an interesting moment to step back and think about what the Day of Atonement means now, when it’s many months behind us with many more to go. Perhaps it’s even more consequential as we’re in the process of counting the Omer, literally counting our steps to Shavuot and the revelation of Sinai. After all, this is where Israel will verbally commit to following the God who reveals himself as the one true, sovereign God of Creation, and we all know how soon our people will revert to worshiping a golden calf. 

In some ways, there’s holiness in the details. Every aspect of the offerings, both for the High Priest himself and for the people, is detailed with precise instructions for purging the Holy Place and the altar from sin and impurity. This ritual was initiated in the tabernacle and then duplicated in the great Jerusalem temples over a thousand years. During the Second Temple, even when there was neither an ark nor a visible sign of the Holy Presence, every movement of the High Priest was well-practiced, as he was considered under mortal risk should he have an impure thought. It’s the same warning that Moshe gives to Aaron in the Tabernacle as we open Leviticus 16 “so that he will not die” (vs. 2). 

There’s also a unique, holy quality in the confessions of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. This was the only day, according to the Mishnah (Yoma 6:2), when the Kohen actually uttered the Tetragrammaton—the four-letter name of God—as he confessed over the sacrifices: first for his own sins, then the sins of the priests, and finally for the sins of the people over the Azazel sacrifice—or as William Tyndale named him, the scapegoat—carrying our sins out of sight. 

We often take it for granted, but one of the most refreshing aspects of the Yom Kippur service as we know it, is that during this very holy day, we do nothing to deny any of our sins. How many times have I been in services where there’s a call for holiness but few details on what’s wrong? For many years after I came to faith, I attended High Holy Day services with my father where the congregation’s first language was Hungarian, as was the lengthy d’rash. Nevertheless, as we read the Viddui, confessions from alef to tav in the Machzor, beating ourselves over the heart, I had to admire the extensive nature of that list. I couldn’t think of anything that had been left out in any language—or anything that I couldn’t reflect on without being amazed at God’s mercies.  

As a Messianic Jew who has been frequently scourged by preachers warning me not to think that I can earn one iota of righteousness, let alone holiness, through attention to the Torah, I find something here of inestimable value. On Yom Kippur, there is no shame, no fear, no debasing of any who draw near—no matter where we think we stand: whether devout, just trying to be faithful, or downright unworthy. In fact, that’s how we open this most holy day of the year—declaring from the bima before Kol Nidre, “we hold it lawful to pray with sinners.”  

Those words usher in a moment of sheer trembling reflection—as if, for a moment, we truly understand ourselves in the courts of God, and face as he does, in absolute acceptance, that human beings fall short, struggle with temptations and fail, and yet, are permitted to come before One who is truly holy—even when our temples are dust and we are guilty for the death of our King Messiah. This is the time to reflect that we too are a generation between “dust to dust.” But through a few hours of prayer, fasting and contrition, we find that we’ve been given sacred time and sacred space for teshuvah—repentance, to return and rediscover our eternal identity.  

I recall many years ago meeting a dear brother in the Lord from Australia. We were at a Messianic conference and he told me about his brother who was appalled to know that he was fasting on Yom Kippur. Since then, I’ve heard a similar concern from other believers, but few of them know the depths of meaning to be found in the remarkable liturgy of the day—much of it calling us to be fully open to God’s call on our whole life. Several times during the Yom Kippur service we repeat: “For on this day atonement shall be made for you to purify you of all your sins; you shall be pure before Adonai” (Lev 16:30). And after we’ve spent time in prayer, fasting, and contrition, I feel genuinely ready to accept that this is my calling, to pursue purity, “to be holy.” And each year I learn a bit more—or perhaps the Torah is inscribed a little more clearly on my heart. I’ve been given a day that I choose to make “a choice point.” A day of decision to press on through the “miserable middle,” even if the journey is tough, lonely, or even impossible to see through the next obstacle. Day by day, year by year, he’s taught me not to give in or give up as long as I can keep his larger, eternal purpose in my mind and heart. Faith will find a way to get through. 

After that final long trumpet blast on Yom Kippur, the day echoes the peaceful reassurance that brings to mind Sim Shalom, a closing prayer of the Amidah: chen v’chesed v’rachamim—mercy, grace and compassion, for us and for all his people of Israel. I leave humbled, acknowledging the incredible miracle of God’s forgiveness in Yeshua, and willing to begin again the journey to holiness.

Affliction and Favor

Parashat Tazria-Metzora, Leviticus 12:1–15:33

Rabbi David Friedman, Jerusalem

As we are all still shut in or locked down for an unknown amount of time, I cannot help but think about some of our ancestors who experienced a type of “shut-in” experience, and learn from their example. 

It is not a pleasant example. 

In ancient Israel, there was an infectious skin disease known from at least the times of Moses to the late Second Temple era. Like the current coronavirus, it affected men and women, the rich and the poor, in both urban and rural areas. The Torah gives explicit steps to take when this disease attacked someone. This disease is often translated as “leprosy,” but it was not Hansen’s disease, or leprosy, as we know it today. Instead, it was an infectious, uncomfortable condition that rendered its victims ritually unclean, possibly confirmed a spiritual impurity, and cut them off from their families in their communities. The “leper” was expelled from home and brought to an isolated area where the local priests could serve as both doctor and spiritual guide as the victim processed his or her way through this terrible disease. 

Leviticus 13.45-46 explains the implications of this skin affliction:  

Anyone with such a defiling disease must wear torn clothes, let their hair be unkempt, cover the lower part of their face and cry out, “Unclean! Unclean!” As long as they have the disease they remain unclean. They must live alone; they must live outside the camp.

 And again, we read in Numbers 5:1-3: 

God said to Moses, “Command the Israelites to send away from the camp anyone who has a defiling skin disease or a discharge of any kind, or who is ceremonially unclean because of a dead body. Send away male and female alike; send them outside the camp so they will not defile their camp, where I dwell among them.”

 The afflicted one had to be expelled from his community.  

The only one whom the diseased person would see during this time in isolation was the priest who would assess the situation and decide whether the isolation would continue or could end, whether there was healing or continued illness. Leviticus 14:1-15 details the protocol for this examination. How much “social distancing” individual victims practiced with other victims is unknown, but seems minimal in terms of finding, gathering, and delivering food. We even read of four victims who begged at the city gate of Samaria, and banded together to gather necessities (perhaps even booty) in 2 Kings chapter 7. 

What would the shut-in victims do during their time in isolation? They didn’t have entertainment. They couldn’t work. Books did not exist. They had no social life. They were a social disgrace (of sorts), outcasts from their own families and communities. 

One of the reasons that our classic commentators cite for being struck with leprosy is slander, and Miriam is the prominent example: “When the cloud lifted from above the tent, Miriam’s skin was leprous—it became as white as snow. Aaron turned toward her and saw that she had a defiling skin disease” (Num 12:10). 

A famous 14th century Jewish book, Sefer Ha-Hinukh (Book of Instruction) informs us: 

Therefore we have been admonished to pay attention to this bad disease and to think that it is caused by sin.  As the Sages have said, for the most part it comes from the sin of uttering evil reports and does not come to us by chance. One must come to the kohen (priest), who is in charge of atoning of sinners, and in the presence of the one who makes atonement, perhaps he will consider repenting, and when put under quarantine for several days perhaps he will turn to examining his actions.

 My former teacher (Professor R. Jospe) from the University of Minnesota wrote,  

[This skin disease] teaches us a moral lesson: a person is responsible for his actions, and his actions have consequences. Divine providence warns us gradually, before the damage becomes irreversible, first by afflicting one’s clothing, and only later, if the warning is ignored, by a worse affliction against the body.

The historical Jewish perspective is that the stricken persons would have time to turn to God, to repent from their wrongdoings (especially the sin of slander). Like the stricken ancient Israeli, we can and should also use this time of social distancing to renew our relationship with God, to receive healing and forgiveness if needed. In this manner we can leave our homes, with God’s help, in the near future, refreshed and ready to go for what he has for us next. 

Friends, I cannot make a direct parallel and say that we are experiencing the coronavirus plague today because of slander. But there is so much slander going on, in my own country in the realm of politics, religious life and even, tragically, in the body of believers. Our world has been sinking in anti-Torah behavior: murder of innocent people through abortions numbers about 45 million babies a year; anti-Semitism is growing and is too often encouraged by the confessing Christian church, as well as the Muslim world; economic oppression caused by greed and disrespect for the aged are everywhere. Humankind’s sexuality is twisted, far from the model given to us in the Torah. Drug and human trafficking are international plagues. Jihad occurs today, which incorporates murder (in Nigeria this has been happening under the world’s nose with little complaint). Our world is an absolute mess.  

So I can say that we live in a polluted world. Polluted by anti-Torah behavior. Polluted by abortion, polluted by antisemitism, polluted by greed, polluted by disrespect toward those whom we should respect greatly. We have so much slander that it’s a major item in the media every single day. Elections worldwide are entertainment in slander and mud-slinging. 

This being the undeniable situation, those of us who are in isolation and who love God have a valuable role in today’s world. We can turn to God from our own wrongdoings (especially slander). We can take a stand against the other ills, both praying and supporting those who are working to offer more Torah-friendly alternatives (such as pro-life options in the face of abortions). While we are in seclusion, like the skin disease victim, we need to meet with our priest. Our priest Yeshua is of the Order of Melchizedek, the High Priest of the Heavenly priesthood. Let him speak to us and direct our futures. Confess to him our wrongdoing of slander and spreading rumors, and anything else from which we need to turn away. We need to be the leaders in doing this. If we don’t do this, who else will? If the priest comes back to examine us and continues to see the corruption, we may remain in isolation. The wonderful news is that our High Priest is quick to forgive and forget our wrongdoings if we turn from them.  

I encourage you to use this time to show your corrupted “skin” to the High Priest.

It’s not the most pleasant thing in the world to do, but neither was it pleasant for the skin disease victim to do so. But it was part of the healing process. It is the righteous thing to do.

It is mandated by our teachings: “If we admit our wrongdoings to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our wrongdoings, and to cleanse us from all acts of unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). 

And then we can intercede on behalf of our communities, our families, and our nations. We are here to do that. While we are shut in, as the Jewish sage Hillel wrote, “if not now, when?” As Shaul penned: “I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor 6:2). Now is the time of God’s favor towards us. He will listen to us during this time of shut-in and lockdown, Messiah instructs us: “But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you” (Matt 6:6).

When Our Grief Is Quarantined

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Chaim Dauermann, Brooklyn, NY

I never dreamed that I would live through such interesting times.

For the past month, owing to the restrictions enacted to slow the spread of COVID-19, I’ve experienced the outside world almost entirely through the windows of our apartment in Brooklyn. I’ve watched as traffic patterns have lightened, as foot traffic has gone from frequent and carefree to sparse, masked, tense, and distanced. The infectious energy of the city I love has been at a sustained ebb. The size of our lives, too, has somehow seemed diminished by this pandemic. I can think of no other time in my life when I have felt as confined.

A change in circumstances necessarily brings with it a change in perception. This year I’ve found the story of God’s liberation of our people from bondage resonating more deeply and fully, now that my own freedom of movement has been temporarily removed. Even matzah has been difficult to come by this year—we’ve had to ration ours to make it last.

This change in perception is also felt when I read this week’s parasha, Shemini. Our Torah portion opens in chapter 9 as Moses finishes consecrating Aaron and his sons as priests. With that completed, Moses takes them through the process of making the first offerings, according to God’s instruction as given on Sinai (Exodus 29). In chapter 10, Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadab and Abihu, are unceremoniously immolated by God when they offer “unauthorized fire” before him. 

Like much of Leviticus, these passages read as rather dry at first glance. The description of the sacrifices is so meticulous that readers might get the feeling they could accurately duplicate the tasks themselves. Even when Nadab and Abihu are burned alive, the events are described with clinical brevity. Leviticus isn’t typically thought of as a breathtaking read. And if you aren’t paying attention, it can be all too easy to miss the very real human drama vibrating just beneath its dry recitations of process and ritual. It is a book about holiness—about what it looks like to draw physically near to God, and what the consequences of that nearness can be.

If we are looking for drama, let us consider Aaron: He is a central figure in this portion. Although he says very little, he experiences—and suffers—much. As our portion begins, the consecration of Aaron and his sons has been completed. It is the eighth day, and—with Moses—Aaron and his sons now bring offerings before God:

Then Aaron lifted up his hands toward the people and blessed them. Then he stepped down from presenting the sin offering, the burnt offering and the fellowship offerings. Moses and Aaron then went into the Tent of Meeting. When they came back out and blessed the people, the glory of ADONAI appeared to all the people. Fire came out from the presence of ADONAI, and devoured the burnt offering and the fat on the altar. When all the people saw it, they shouted and fell on their faces. (Lev 9:22–24)

Then, abruptly, things take a turn:

Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his own censer, put fire in it, laid incense over it, and offered unauthorized fire before ADONAI—which He had not commanded them. So fire came out from the presence of ADONAI and consumed them. So they died before ADONAI. (Lev 10:1–2)

Not much is said about what Nadab and Abihu did wrong, why it was wrong, or why this was the punishment. Proximity to the presence of God had already been shown to be something coming with great risk. In Exodus, before God descends to Mount Sinai, he instructs Moses: “Whoever touches the mountain will surely be put to death” (Exod 19:12).

Regarding the death of Aaron’s sons, Rashi comments:

Rabbi Eliezer says: Aaron’s sons died only because they rendered halachic decisions in the presence of Moses, their teacher. Rabbi Ishmael says: They died because they had entered the sanctuary after having drunk wine. The proof is that after their death, Scripture admonished the survivors that they may not enter the sanctuary after having drunk wine.

Indeed, later in the passage, after Nadab and Abihu’s deaths, God does speak directly to Aaron, saying: “Do not drink wine or fermented drink, neither you nor your sons with you, when you go into the Tent of Meeting, so that you do not die” (Lev 10:9).

The book of Exodus records that God was extremely specific with Moses when describing how and when incense should be burned by Aaron the priest (Exod 30:7–9). Yet, in our passage, we see that Nadab and Abihu each took “his own censer,” put incense in it, and offered “unauthorized fire” before the Lord. Any one of these points, or all of them together, could have borne responsibility for the offense.

But let us return to Aaron. Beneath all of the meticulous and dry detail of this narrative—the instructions, the penalties, the results—is a story that harmonizes in surprising ways with things we are going through today as a nation. The offering of sacrifices at the altar might seem rather foreign, but grieving over the sudden loss of someone close to us is something many of us are all too familiar with. And as the COVID-19 pandemic sweeps the world, even those of us who are fortunate enough not to have lost a loved one to this disease likely know someone who has. One of the truly heartbreaking consequences of this pandemic is how it has altered our mourning. People who are hospitalized are unable to have visitors, and the people who die must die alone.

A recent Wall Street Journal article explores this phenomenon:

A brutal hallmark of the pandemic is the way it isolates its victims even in their final moments. Patients die alone in hospital rooms, cut off from their spouses, children, siblings and often their pastors or rabbis. The emotional end-of-life moments, if they happen at all, unfold over an electronic tablet or phone, with a stranger serving as an intermediary.

This is true not only of people who are passing away from COVID-19. Hospitals and hospice centers are all on lockdown. Because of social distancing rules, people have had trouble having funerals or sitting shiva. That lack of physical presence, both for the ones who are passing, and the ones left behind, comes at a great cost. I am haunted, still, by a photo I saw a few weeks ago, of a woman standing outside a building, looking in through a window while holding a cell phone to her ear. The building was a hospice care center, and on the other side of that window was the woman’s father. It was the last time she spoke to him before he passed away.

The Scriptures record what happens in the moments after Nadab and Abihu are killed: Moses tells Aaron and his surviving sons they cannot mourn, nor can they even so much as go outside the entrance of the tent of meeting, “or you will die, for the anointing oil of ADONAI is on you” (Lev 10:7). Aaron’s cousins are conscripted to remove Nadab and Abihu’s remains from the sanctuary, and the priestly work continues. How must Aaron have felt? It’s an otherworldly scenario, and yet as I read this passage in the context of what has become of our grieving today, I cannot help but feel that Aaron’s experience here is closer to us than it otherwise might be.

As we approach this coming Shabbat, we also bring Passover to a close. As we recount the story of the Exodus at our Seder tables, we are reminded of the deaths of the firstborn throughout all the land of Egypt. Even Pharaoh—a wicked man—got to mourn his dead, while Aaron, Israel’s Kohen Gadol, lost his own firstborn, and yet he could not. The tension between the contrasting circumstances of the two men is striking. Some might even call it unjust. What do we do with that imbalance? What can we make of a world that produces such brokenness?

We who believe in Yeshua also spend time during each Passover season meditating on Messiah’s role as Passover Lamb (Exod 12:5, John 1:29, 1 Cor 5:7). When thinking about Yeshua’s suffering, death, and resurrection, we have an opportunity to remember that God has experienced true nearness to our pain. The prophet Isaiah identifies the Messiah as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53). Through the death of his own Son, the God of Israel entered into our human experiences of sin, pain, grief, and even death. Through the process of drawing near to us, he drew us nearer to himself:

Therefore, brothers and sisters, we have boldness to enter into the Holies by the blood of Yeshua. He inaugurated a new and living way for us through the curtain—that is, His flesh. We also have a Kohen Gadol over God’s household. So let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and body washed with pure water. (Heb 10:19–22)

All Scripture references are Tree of Life Version (TLV).

Photo: Paul Frangipane/Brooklyn Eagle

An Open Hand

This week’s Torah commentary features a video presentation by Rabbi Russ Resnik on the tradition of Sefirat ha-Omer, or counting the Omer, based on Leviticus 23:15-16.

You shall count seven full weeks from the day after the Sabbath, from the day that you brought the sheaf of the wave offering. You shall count fifty days to the day after the seventh Sabbath. Then you shall present a grain offering of new grain to the Lord.

This 49-day count begins during Passover, and brings us to Shavuot, providing a rich connection that heightens the meaning of both holidays. Our deliverance from Egypt isn’t complete until we arrive at Mount Sinai and receive the Torah. Messianic Jews see additional meaning in this transition: Messiah’s crucifixion and resurrection during Passover reach their fulfillment when the ascended Messiah pours out his Spirit upon his followers at Shavuot.

The UMJC keeps the tradition of counting the Omer alive with a communal prayer drive each year. This year’s prayer focus is “An Open Hand,” reflecting our concern for the poor and needy, especially during this time of pandemic and crisis. Our open hand to the poor reflects the open hand of God toward us and all his creation, as it is written: “You open your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing” (Psalm 145:16).

Preparing for Passover in a Pandemic

Shabbat Hagadol 5780

The Shabbat before Passover is traditionally a time to review laws and customs in preparation for the festival.

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Passover is above all a story, an appeal to imagination and to memory. We don’t just think and talk about Passover, but we picture and reenact and memorialize it.

Ironically, one of the advantages of our current COVID shutdown is that it helps us imagine the “night of watching” in Egypt, the vulnerability our ancestors felt as they heard cries of anguish over the stricken firstborn in houses all around them. We’re in a far less dire situation of course, but it does helps us understand more deeply the Hebrews’ yearning for divine protection.

This crisis also makes us more aware of the power of shared experience. It’s another irony that during this time of isolation and social distancing, we can feel more connected to others. When I take my dog for a walk in the nearby park, the neighbors who are walking their dogs are friendly and outgoing, at a safe distance of course. Our havurah is meeting through a video feed online, but remains close, sharing concerns and prayers and just being community, perhaps more intensively than before.

So Passover this year might come alive for us in new ways, even though we can’t participate in a big community or extended family Seder. We can still remain connected through technological means, and we can individually enact reminders of the Passover story that Scripture provides.

The Negative Commandment  

One reminder is among the most distinctive commandments of Passover: “And no leaven shall be seen among you in all of your territory for seven days” (Deut. 16:4). Hametz or leaven includes all products made of or even containing any of the five grains of biblical times: wheat, barley, spelt, rye, and oats—because these inevitably become leavened. Yeast spores are afloat in the very air we breathe, and will attach to grain without any effort on our part—so the grain itself must be removed.

This commandment has been expanded and modified in various ways over the centuries, and you can learn the specifics through the many resources we can still access, and consult your local rabbi—if you have one—on specific applications. The heart of this commandment is a thorough cleansing from leaven, traditionally completed the night before Passover (Tuesday, April 7, this year). The next morning a symbolic portion of hametz is burned, and the formula is recited, “Any leaven in my possession, which I have or have not seen, which I have or have not removed, shall be as if it does not exist, and as the dust of the earth.”

Cleaning out our homes points to an inner cleansing of leaven. Just as grain inevitably becomes leavened by the surrounding atmosphere, so do we and our communities inevitably become leavened because of our fallen nature, and the fallenness of the surrounding culture in which we live.

Both the rabbinic literature and the B’rit Hadasha see leaven as a metaphor for sin or the evil inclination. “Don’t you know,” Paul asks the Corinthians, “that a little hametz leavens the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old hametz, so you may be a new batch, just as you are unleavened” (1 Cor 5:6b-7a).

A few years back, I visited Ayts Chayim (now Shalom Boca) Synagogue in Florida just before Passover, and spoke about three strains of leaven afloat in the cultural air we breathe. Today we’re rightly concerned about breathing in the coronavirus, and we’re making every effort to be free of it . . . but these floating spores of spiritual leaven are still all around us.

Just as we’re vigilant to sanitize ourselves against the coronavirus, so we can be vigilant against these three strains that threaten our souls and communities—very much including our Messianic Jewish community—and fulfill Paul’s admonition: “Get rid of the old hametz.”

1.      The leaven of Consumerism

The COVID shutdown gives us a new perspective on consumerism . . . because we can’t do as much of it as usual. (Although it’s notable that lots of people responded to news of the expanding pandemic by consuming more stuff—toilet paper, bottled water, canned goods, and—at least around here—potatoes!)

There’s religious consumerism too, which talks God but centers on self, on what’s in it for me, how I get the most bang for my religious buck. We need to watch out that consumerism doesn’t seduce us into a religion about me, with God as a flashy accessory.

 2.      The leaven of Competition

Leaven “puffs up,” as Paul reminds us. Puffed up people love to compare themselves and compete with others. They (or we) gain in self-esteem by tearing down others. The COVID Shutdown should help us become less competitive and more interested in helping others (even though we might still be tempted to compete for toilet paper). It reminds us that it’s essential to watch out for others, as well as for ourselves.

3.      The leaven of inConsistency

Inconsistency is hypocrisy—everybody’s favorite religious criticism. It happens when our behavior doesn’t match our verbiage, as a portrayed by a blogger called “The Jewish Atheist”:

When I was a child, I remembered High Holiday services at our hometown temple as glorified fashion shows and gossip fests. The rabbi and cantor were speaking or singing while the congregants whispered about who looked old, who got divorced, or where so-and-so’s daughter went to college. The most religious time of the Jewish year was reduced to petty arguments, icy glares, and idle chatter.

We can all think of examples even closer to home—in our own communities and personal lives—but the positive commandment of Passover takes care of this.

The Positive Commandment

Get rid of the old hametz, so you may be a new batch, just as you are unleavened—for Messiah, our Passover Lamb, has been sacrificed. Therefore let us celebrate the feast not with old hametz, the hametz of malice and wickedness, but with unleavened bread—the matzah of sincerity and truth. (1 Cor 5:7–8)

We not only get rid of hametz—that’s the negative command—but we eat matzah. That’s the positive command. Sincerity and truth mean that our lives have integrity. How we live throughout the week, how we respond to this crazy pandemic, reflects what we say at services on Shabbat. More than that, it reflects who we really are in Messiah Yeshua.

• Instead of Consumerism, it’s all about God, who revealed himself in Messiah Yeshua, not just to me but to all Israel, and all of humankind.

• Instead of Competition, it’s all about God’s kingdom, about his program, not mine.

• Instead of inConsistency, it’s all about integrity, serving the King ahead of myself, always.

Messiah Yeshua is our Passover Lamb, and he’s also the matzah of sincerity and truth. When we partake of this matzah, we partake of him, as he instructed us to do one Passover long ago: “And when He had taken matzah and offered the bracha, He broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is My body, given for you. Do this in memory of Me’” (Luke 22:19).  

Passover is a story that lives on even amid the challenges and distractions of the COVID crisis. So let’s clean out the leaven and celebrate the festival with pure hearts, in memory of the one who renews the story for us and for every generation.

 All Scripture references from Tree of Life Version (TLV)

Image of yeast spores: Getty Images, Visuals Unlimited, inc./Dr. Stanley Flegler

The Gift that Goes Up

Parashat Vayikra: Leviticus 1:1–5:26

by David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

This week’s parashah describes the offerings presented in the tabernacle, including olah, minchah, and hattat.

Olah

Hashem takes in the smell of the burnt offering, the smell after months and months of rain, which Noach smelled; he was the first one to offer something up. Destruction and chaos were behind him, the gift, the Olah, went up to Hashem, up in smoke.  

Yitzchak, already a young man, understood what was happening, he must have understood, even though he never heard the initial command: “Take now your son, your only son, the beloved one, Isaac, and go for yourself (Lech Lecha) to the land of Moriah, and offer up the gift that goes up there, on one of the mountains that I will show you” (Gen 22:2). Avraham, his father, was offering him back up to God; he was to ascend, to make an aliyah. So they walked together, father and son. Going up, up the mountain.

And he called to Moshe—

 YHWH spoke to him from the Tent of Appointment, saying:

 Speak to the children of Israel and say to them:

Anyone—when (one) among you brings-near a near-offering for YHWH

 From domestic-animals: from the herd or from the flock you may 

bring-near your near-offering.

 If an offering-up is his near-offering, from the herd,

 (then) male, wholly sound, let him bring-it-near,

 As acceptance for him, before the presence of YHWH

 He is to lean his hand on the head of the offering-up,

 That there may be acceptance on his behalf, to effect-ransom for him.

(Lev 1:1–4, Everett Fox translation)

That which is offered up, the olah, brings near the One Who Is High and Lifted Up. We remember the binding of Yitzchak when we pray, “May his merit give us acceptance on his behalf.” May the near-sacrifice of Yitzchak ransom us, the sons and daughters of Yakov.

Minchah

East of Eden

in front of the two winged angelic Keruvim 

Kayin, the firstborn son of Humanity

Took from the fruit of the ground a gift to Hashem

But he kept the best fruit for himself. 

There

Hevel, a gift, a minchah, from the firstborn of his flock

A gift offering from his very best. 

Kayin’s face darkened.

The wolf is at the door

The devouring wolf

“Where is Hevel?”

Hashem asks a question to which he knows the answer.

The blood of Hevel is spilled, like his gift, and flows into the ground.

As Yakov brought to Esav, after betraying him: “Please, accept this gift, this minchah, from your servant, seeing your face is like seeing the face of Hashem” (Gen 33:10).

As Yakov’s sons brought a gift to their brother, Yosef. Having betrayed him, near starvation and out of options, they bring their best tribute to the vice regent of Egypt. 

Now what is left of the grain-gift (is) Aharon’s and his sons’, a holiest holy portion from the fire offerings of YHWH. (Lev 2:3, Everett Fox)

The grain-gift is the tribute, the minchah, the once-a-day afternoon prayer of the sons and daughters of Yakov. Aaron and his sons eat the remainder of that which is left by Hashem. Is it possible to have a meal with God? Like a young boy who asks for money, so he can buy his mom chocolates for her birthday, and he, of course, gets to eat half, so they share the sweets together. But it’s the best gift she’s ever received: a gift offering from his very best, a tribute to her maternal love.  

Hattat

Kayin: The wolf is at the door, the devouring wolf, but you must overtake him—sin, guilt, the yetzer ha-ra, inclination for badness. The offering that addresses the devouring wolf is from the same root as the word for sin: Hattat. It’s the offering that purges.

 If the Anointed Priest should sin, bringing-guilt upon the people, 

he is to bring-near, for the sin that he has sinned, 

a bull, a young of the herd, wholly-sound, for YHWH as a 

hattat/decontamination-offering. (Lev. 4:3, Everett Fox) 

Yeshua

The Shepherd-Rabbi, Yeshua, arranges for a Passover meal. He raises the cup filled to the brim with wine. Perhaps he is thinking of the innocent Hevel, slain before his time by the devouring wolf, bringing his heart-felt gift. Or maybe he’s thinking of Yitzchak, gratefully offering that which goes up, which is Yitzchak himself. Indeed, this Shepherd-Rabbi will soon be high and lifted up, 

Behold, My servant will prosper,

He will be high and lifted up and greatly exalted.

Just as many were appalled at You—

His appearance was disfigured more than any man,

His form more than the sons of men.

So He will sprinkle many nations. (Isaiah 52:13–15, TLV)

He will make himself the olah, like Yitzchak, he will make an aliyah to the Holiest place, Kiddush Hashem, like the martyrs of the sons and daughters of Yakov. 

Perhaps the Shepherd-Rabbi was thinking of the devouring wolf of Kayin, the power of sin and guilt to devour the sheep, and the wolf devoured him whole, unto death. The Shepherd was acting like a helpless, slaughtered lamb. And he was gone. And then, just as the Shepherd was devoured and gone, and the wolf and the devouring shepherds were upon the little lambs, the Shepherd-Rabbi reappeared, but this time, as a gate, a door, and on the door was written The Name: YHWH. And the voice of the shepherd/door called out gently to the lambs, and they recognized the kindness of his voice, and they entered through the gate, and they were safe. They were safe from the wolf, safe from death, and nothing and no one could take them out. They were home.  

Or perhaps the Shepherd-Rabbi was thinking of you in that moment, raising the Passover cup, and then offering himself: the gift, the going up, the drawing-near, the one-who-became-as-sin, the wholly-sound lamb. 

In God's Shadow

Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1–40:38

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

Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was earnestly seeking God’s will for my vocation. I was in the middle of a Master’s program in Chemistry, but wasn’t sure that it was what He wanted me to do. After much prayer I got an undeniably clear answer to finish my degree. I obediently finished and two years later, I again began seeking for what was next. I agonized in prayer for weeks. I can remember praying about this as I was driving to my mother’s house one Sunday and God said to me, again undeniably, “Do what you want!”

I was stunned. Did I hear wrong? Why would he say that? I wanted some direction! To know that I was on the right path! I began to wonder if I had just heard wrongly. But then a week later I was praying with a gifted friend of mine, whom I had said nothing about this to, and she said to me, “I see God laying roses in your path, but which one to pick up is up to you.” I was absolutely farblunget! I couldn’t believe my ears!

To top matters off, a week later I was on a personal prayer retreat and happened upon the text of Elisha’s encounter with the woman who had built him a room to stay in when he passed through (2 Kings 4:8–17). He asks her, “What can I do for you in return?” She replies “I have no son.” And Elisha says to her, “You will have one this time next year!” This hit me solidly between the eyes. While I had read this story several times, it never occurred to me that Elisha didn’t ask Hashem’s opinion. He just granted her this boon. How could he do that? What if God didn’t want this woman to have a son?

That weekend I read and prayed further. I also found this amazing passage. In 1 Samuel 10:6–7 (CJB), Samuel says to the newly anointed King Saul, “Then the Spirit of Adonai will fall on you; you will prophesy with them and be turned into another man! When these signs come over you, just do whatever you feel like doing, because God is with you.”

This whole series of events was assaulting my view of what it meant to be in Hashem’s will. Could it be that he didn’t really care what I did with my career? To be honest, I even found myself feeling a little hurt that I wasn’t special enough for him to give me a particular life mission or task.

What I eventually concluded was that God is interested in us spending enough time with him that we imbibe his values, and that the details are less important. “Be holy as I am holy” is his dictate (Lev 19:2). Some people certainly do have particular missions, but I think that this is more the exception than the rule.

So what does all of this have to do with our parasha this week? In our text we read about God selecting Betzalel to oversee the making of the Mishkan. Two midrashim point to Betzalel’s unique qualification for this work. In one (Genesis Rabbah 15:10), Moses is having a hard time understanding how the menorah is to be constructed. He asks God three times because he kept getting confused. Finally, God says to him, “Go ask Betzalel, he can do it.” Moses is astonished that Betzalel easily fabricates the menorah. He exclaims, “God showed it to me several times, yet I couldn’t understand how to make it; yet you, who never saw it, were able to make it on your own? Betzalel, you must have been standing  in the shadow of God, betzel El, when he showed me how to make the menorah.” 

The second midrash comes from the Talmud (Berachot 55a). God tells Moses to have Betzalel make the Mishkan, the ark, and the furniture. Moses, however, reverses the order when he tells him—furniture, ark, and Mishkan. But Betzalel says “Moses, one usually builds the house and then its furnishings.” To which Moses exclaims, “That is exactly how Hashem instructed me! Were you standing betzel El, in God’s shadow, when he instructed me?”

The implication here is that Betzalel, whose name literally means “in God’s shadow,” was attuned enough to God that he knew what God really wanted.

My conclusion from my own experience in seeking Hashem’s will is that we are all called to be “betzel El,” in God’s shadow. If we dwell near enough to him like this then it isn’t as important what we do, but how we do it. Are we exhibiting the same love and compassion as God does? Do we see the world as something worthy of love and redemption as he does? Do we seek to bring justice to the world, each in our own way? This is what Hashem asks of us. We can bring Hashem’s shadow, so to speak, into anything that we choose to do. It could be as a homemaker, teacher, engineer, janitor, or even as a rabbi!

We need this now more than ever in our highly polarized society and especially during the current health crisis unfolding across the world.

This is exactly what we see Yeshua doing throughout his earthly life. He dwells constantly in God’s shadow through a life of secluded prayer and study of the Scriptures. He declares, “I tell you that the Son cannot do anything on his own, but only what he sees the Father doing” (John  5:19). And yet we see him just healing people and forgiving people without stopping to seek God’s will. I used to think that this was because he was not only human but also divine. But now I think that it has more to do with him constantly dwelling in Hashem’s shadow.

May we seek to be attuned enough to our Father that we imbibe his values and perspectives. May we seek to dwell in his shadow through prayer and study. Then we can truly “do what is at hand,” for his Spirit will be upon us. Shabbat Shalom.