The Day that Changed the World

Shavuot 5781

Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

The Festival of Shavuot has the unique distinction of being the only holiday celebrated in both Jewish and Christian traditions. The church may call it “Pentecost” and their celebration may have a different focus, but Shavuot commemorates the birth of these two religions; at Sinai for the Jews and in Jerusalem for the church.

But despite its importance, compared to other Jewish holidays there aren’t many customs connected with Shavuot. Aside from a few traditions like eating dairy and studying Torah all night, the main mitzvot connected to Shavuot are reading the book of Ruth and hearing the Ten Commandments.

Looking for ideas on how to celebrate Shavuot, I asked some of my pastor friends what they were planning for Pentecost. They all shrugged their shoulders and didn’t have anything special going on.

Shavuot/Pentecost should be one of the biggest holidays in the world, but it seems to me that it’s not given the prominence that it deserves. And I believe this is a result of both Judaism and Christianity missing big pieces of what Shavuot is all about.

In early Judaism, Shavuot was primarily a harvest festival and pilgrimage. The Feast of Weeks marks the time when the wheat fields in Israel were harvested and brought to the temple in Jerusalem. But if you’re not an ancient Judean farmer these ideas aren’t very concrete, and this abstraction coupled with the lack of observances has led to Shavuot being the least known holiday amongst secular Jews, many not even knowing that it exists.

But there is a greater significance to Shavuot. Shavuot takes place fifty days after Passover, and in those fifty days the Israelites who had been freed from slavery in Egypt made their way through the wilderness and traveled to Mt Sinai.

One of the great themes of Passover is freedom, but our tradition teaches us the Jews were not really free when Pharaoh let them leave. They may have been physically free, but in their hearts they were still slaves, unable to come to grips with their newfound freedom.

The Jewish people did not experience true liberation of mind, body, and soul until they came to Mt Sinai, heard the voice of God, and received the Torah. On Shavuot we celebrate not just being given some laws; we celebrate being given our freedom, our identity, and our soul.  

As for Christianity, Shavuot, or Pentecost as they call it, commemorates the events described in the second chapter of Acts. During the festival of Shavuot, when thousands of Jews were gathered in Jerusalem to bring their wheat harvest offerings to the temple, a mighty wind from Heaven rushed down and tongues of fire rested on the assembled followers of Yeshua. They began to speak in all the languages of the world, each one of them proclaiming the gospel and the mighty acts of God. 

The crowds were amazed, and when Peter stood up to tell the people about the death and resurrection of Messiah Yeshua, it’s said that over 3,000 Jews came to faith that day.

From that time on everything was different, and still is to this day. No longer confined to Jerusalem, the gospel spread throughout Israel and into the nations. Empowered by the Ruach HaKodesh, the followers of Yeshua were able to perform miracles, heal the sick, raise the dead. Thousands and thousands of people came to faith, Jew and gentile, and the gospel was preached in every nation and tongue.

The giving of the Ruach was an occasion as momentous as the giving of the Torah. If the first Shavuot was the birth of the Jewish people, this Shavuot marked the birth of the Yeshua movement. What had once been a small, insular group spread and became a worldwide phenomenon that continues to grow to this day and beyond. 

On the first Shavuot, God gave us the gift of his Word. On the second great Shavuot, God gave the gift of his Spirit. We have much to celebrate, yet the world doesn’t seem to pay all that much attention to Shavuot. For both Jews and Christians, Shavuot is at best often treated like a minor holiday, at worst like something that we forget about altogether. Why is that?

The problem is that both sides are only getting half the story. For Jews, we celebrate the giving of the Torah, but the story ends there. This was a one-time gift, never to be repeated. And the church celebrates the giving of the Spirit, but there’s no context involved. For the average Christian, the Spirit was given on just some random day in history.

It’s only when you put the two stories together that you see something greater emerge. Both stories, Sinai and Jerusalem, are amazing on their own and each day changed the world forever. However, when we read these stories together, we see not just some one-off miracles but a story of progressive revelation and a God who gives and continues to give more and greater gifts to the world.

Yes, we celebrate the giving of the Torah for itself. But we also understand that there is even more cause for celebration because God has sent Messiah Yeshua, the Word made flesh, to fulfill the Torah.

And we can celebrate the giving of the Holy Spirit in the full context of God’s revelation to us. First, God sends his Word so that we know his will for us. Then he sends his Son, so that he can dwell with us and love us face to face, and finally he sends his Spirit so that nothing can separate us from his love ever again.

On the first great Shavuot God gave us the gift of the Torah. On the second great Shavuot he gave us the gift of the Holy Spirit. No one can know the hour or the day of Messiah’s return, but perhaps Yeshua will come on a third great Shavuot. How fitting would it be for God to give us the greatest gift of all on a day such as this?

Chag Shavuot Sameach!

The Benefit of Losing Control

Parashat B’har-B’Chukotai, Leviticus 25:1–27:34

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Last week I spent a couple of days on the upper Rio Grande near Taos, New Mexico, along with Rabbi Rich Nichol, my friend Avi, and my son Luke, who has the most experience among us in canoeing and kayaking. After our first day of running the rapids he said that what he loves about boating on the river is how you can use all your skills and all your strength, you can make all the right moves, and it’s still always beyond your control. Sometimes you just end up going wherever the flow takes you. You can navigate the current, but the current always wins out—and he loves that reality.

Luke’s comments about managing (or being managed by) the river reminded me of the Lord’s instructions in this week’s parasha about managing the land of Israel: 

When you come into the land that I give you, the land shall keep a Shabbat to Hashem. For six years you shall sow your field, and for six years you shall prune your vineyard and gather in its fruits, but in the seventh year there shall be a Shabbat of rest for the land, a Shabbat for Hashem. You shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. You shall not reap what grows of itself in your harvest, or gather the grapes of your undressed vine. It shall be a year of rest for the land. The Shabbat of the land shall provide food for you. . . . (Lev 25:2–6a)

The Israelite farmer does all he can, sowing, pruning, and harvesting, but then, like the kayaker running the rapids, he encounters a limit to what he can control. He must let go every seventh year, to let the land rest from his labors and provide food on its own. This Torah instruction on farm management is a wider lesson on the limits of our own efforts, even the best ones. And if the lesson isn’t clear enough, the Torah mandates a still greater cessation of human effort after seven of these seven-year cycles:  

You shall count seven Shabbats of years, seven times seven years, so that the time of the seven Shabbats of years shall give you forty-nine years. Then you shall cause the shofar to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month. . . . And you shall consecrate the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you, when each of you shall return to his property and each of you shall return to his clan. That fiftieth year shall be a Jubilee for you; in it you shall neither sow nor reap what grows of itself nor gather the grapes from the undressed vines. (Lev 25:8–11)

Today, with our abundance of stored and stockpiled food supplies, it’s hard to imagine how hard and even threatening it must have been to forego preparing the soil and planting the seed for a whole year. The sages comment on this challenge: 

It is customary for a person to perform a mitzvah for a day, a week, or a month. Does one usually perform a mitzvah for an entire year? Yet the farmer lets the field lie fallow for a year, the vineyard for a year, and remains silent. Is there greater strength of character than this? (Yalkut T’hillim 860, cited in The Mussar Torah Commentary)

This great “strength of character” doesn’t arise from human exertion and competence, but from trust in God. It arises out beyond the limits of all that we can do, out in those beyond-our-control areas of human experience where we learn to fully trust in God. We realize that God is always present and active, especially there, present like the rushing current and far more powerful than our feeble paddle strokes.

The cycle of Shabbat years and Jubilee reminds us of this underlying reality, summarized in these words:  “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me” (Lev 25:23). The land we work doesn’t belong to us, but to Hashem; it requires our efforts and our diligence, but in the end, we are resident aliens, dependent on his provision. The limits on our ownership of the land train us in trusting him.

The Torah continues to post these limits to our control and to promote trust in God in an age obsessed with human achievement and technical competence. We’re learning to let go in an age that’s holding on tight, that’s running the rapids with a white-knuckled grip on the paddles. And yet the ability to relax our grip and trust in God remains essential to spiritual wholeness.

Messiah Yeshua calls us to the ultimate in letting go: “Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:33). It’s clear from reading the full account of the Good News that Messiah is not calling us to necessarily live in poverty and isolation. We still have work to do and responsibilities to fulfill. But he’s calling us to the Jubilee realization that we are resident aliens here, no matter how much we’ve accumulated or accomplished, and that it all belongs to our Master, who reminds us, “The land is mine.” When things threaten to drift out of control, we may sometimes need to paddle harder, or we may need to recognize this anxious moment as an opportunity to trust God more deeply.

Renouncing all that we have doesn’t necessarily mean poverty and marginalization (although it could), but it does remove our excuses for stinginess, holding grudges, self-serving deeds, and greed of all kinds. Renouncing all that we have means we shouldn’t be shocked or scandalized when we’re expected to practice forgiveness, or generosity, or self-sacrifice. Instead of diminishing us, it reminds us that the current of God remains far stronger than our most heroic efforts, and we please him as we learn to entrust ourselves to its flow.

 Scripture references are the author’s translation, based on the ESV.

Photo: New Mexico River Adventures

Are We Finished?

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1-24:23
Chaim Dauermann, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Leviticus is not typically thought of as a very exciting book. Perhaps this is rightfully so, considering that nearly the entire text comprises descriptions of sacrifices, and rules and regulations for priests and lay people. But with a slight adjustment of perspective, we can see Leviticus as something different, a narrative as compelling, vivid, and disquieting as any horror story. 

Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu are burned alive through the power of God, a consequence for perhaps as little as coming to the tent of meeting while drunk (chapter 10). Elsewhere, a young man blasphemes the name of God, and is stoned to death for it by his community at God’s command (chapter 24). We read of child sacrifice, necromancy, mediumship, and all manner of sexual perversion, including incest and bestiality. In most cases, the prescribed punishment for these transgressions is death, and in other cases, exile from the community. God’s incomparable holiness is portrayed in stark contrast to humanity’s corrupt, fallen nature. The solution that Leviticus proposes for enabling us, in our sinful condition, to approach God is purity, and there is perhaps nowhere in this book where this solution is presented more succinctly and clearly than in this week’s parasha, Emor. 

In chapter 22, the Lord gives Moses instructions for him to relate to Aaron and his sons: “Say to them, ‘If any one of your offspring throughout your generations approaches the holy things that the people dedicate to the Lord, while he has an uncleanness, that person shall be cut off from my presence: I am the Lord’” (verse 3). And then, “They shall therefore keep my charge, lest they bear sin for it and die thereby when they profane it: I am the Lord who sanctifies them” (verse 9). Later, he delivers instructions about offerings, as well:

Speak to Aaron and his sons and all the people of Israel and say to them, When any one of the house of Israel or of the sojourners in Israel presents a burnt offering as his offering, for any of their vows or freewill offerings that they offer to the Lord, if it is to be accepted for you it shall be a male without blemish, of the bulls or the sheep or the goats. You shall not offer anything that has a blemish, for it will not be acceptable for you. (Lev‬ 22:18–20)‬ ‬‬

Leviticus can make for some challenging reading, not because it might seem rather dry to some, but because of what it reveals about us and about the perfection of God. How can we ever measure up? How can we meet God’s standards? How are we to respond to a scriptural reality in which the penalty for transgressions is often a painful and gruesome death, and the result of impurity is exile?

When we mess up, are we done? Are we finished? Is that what it means to follow God?

Rav Sha’ul draws on imagery from Leviticus in his letter to the Romans: “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship” (Rom 12:1). Sha’ul would seem to be talking about purity here, but is it the same sort of purity that we read about in our parasha this week? 

I was a teenager in the 1990s. If you were as well, or if you had children who were, then the term “purity culture” might seem familiar. It’s a term commonly used to describe a movement within conservative Christian circles at the time to promote an especially rigorous approach to sexual abstinence before marriage, particularly among young people. Encouraging adherence to a biblical standard for sexuality is unambiguously a good thing, but there are some who feel that the purity movement of the 90s may have taken things too far. Some people, particularly women, say that the zealous spirit of that time caused them lasting psychological and spiritual challenges that they struggle with to this day, as their understanding of their value became tied to whatever level of purity they could sustain. “Messing up” by doing or thinking the wrong thing brought with it feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness, a conviction that they, having been so tainted, would be worth less to God, and less to their future spouse. 

I cannot help but think about Romans 12:1 when I think of the zeal and fallout from that time, not only because the verse feels so applicable, but also because it was one of the foundational passages cited for that approach to purity and chastity. To present ourselves as a “living sacrifice” that is “holy and acceptable to God” certainly sounds like an admonishment to be pure, but is this what Sha’ul meant?

Earlier on in his letter to the Romans, Sha’ul uses a first-person perspective in describing humanity’s struggle with sin:

So I find the principle—that evil is present in me, the one who wants to do good. For I delight in the Torah of God with respect to the inner man, but I see a different law in my body parts, battling against the law of my mind and bringing me into bondage under the law of sin which is in my body parts. Miserable man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? (Rom‬ 7:21–24‬ TLV)‬‬

Here, Sha’ul seems to be giving voice to the very sort of anguish we all can face when comparing ourselves to the standard of perfection that God represents. And Sha’ul is well-qualified to opine on these matters, for when he says he delights in the Torah, he speaks as a man who knows the Torah well. I think, here, of his words from Acts 22:3, “I am a Jew . . . educated at the feet of Gamaliel according to the strict manner of the law of our fathers.” As to what that education entailed, we can only surmise. But when it comes to purity, I do find it interesting to note what the sages wrote of Gamaliel: “When Rabban Gamaliel the Elder died, the glory of the Torah ceased, and purity and abstinence perished” (Mishnah Sotah 9:15, emphasis added). 

When Sha’ul cries out in his plea, “Who will rescue me from this body of death?” it is, of course, rhetorical, for Messiah had already come, his sacrifice on the execution stake complete. Knowing this well, Sha’ul follows his lament about his “body of death” with these words: “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Messiah Yeshua. For the law of the Spirit of life in Messiah Yeshua has set you free from the law of sin and death” (Rom‬ 8:1–2‬ TLV‬). 

Sha’ul understood what the Torah demanded in terms of purity, but he was also a man who deeply comprehended the ways in which Yeshua’s death and resurrection can impact our existence, if we let them, by allowing us to approach God in ways that we otherwise could not. So what does Sha’ul mean in Romans 12:1, when he calls for us to be a “living sacrifice?” Romans 12:2 gives us a glimpse: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” 

When we sin, we are not cast aside. Just as Yeshua lifts a burden of condemnation from us, he also issues a call to action. With our minds “transformed” and “renewed,” our bodies are a vessel for the purposes of God. He has a will for us. We aren’t finished, and he isn’t finished with us.

It Takes Courage to Be Holy

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 16:1–20:27

Dr. Vered Hillel, Netanya, Israel

 “You must be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Lev 19:2).

What an incredible statement! How can we, who are finite and mortal, be like God, who is infinite and eternal? It almost seems preposterous and impossible; yet Hashem told Moses to speak these exact words to the children of Israel, more than once. All of the commands for Israel to be holy as Hashem is holy, with the exception of Leviticus 11:44, 45, are found in what is known as the Holiness Code (Lev 17:1–26:46). This unit draws its name from the central theme of holiness, which is repeatedly and emphatically addressed throughout this section. This week’s Torah portion comprises part of the Holiness Code.  

The people of Israel bear a collective responsibility to seek and demonstrate holiness. In almost every section of the Holiness Code, Hashem tells Moses, “Speak . . . to the children of Israel” (17:1; 18;1; 19:2; 20:2; 22:17; 23:1, 24; 24:1–2; 25:20). We bear a collective, as well as individual, responsibility to seek to be holy as Hashem is holy. And we bear witness to the presence of Hashem in and among us. The Holiness Code, through its collection of secular, ritual, moral, and festival regulations, separates Israel from the other peoples of the world as Hashem’s chosen people (Lev 20:24, 26) and informs us how to demonstrate this unique calling through our actions, through the way we live.  

Let’s look a little more closely at the first four chapters of the Holiness Code (Leviticus 17–20), which are part of this week’s Torah portion, to see what we can learn about being holy as Hashem is holy. Three times in these four chapters (17:2, 18:2, 19:2) Hashem tells Moses “Speak to . . . the children of Israel and tell them . . .” In Leviticus 17:2 Moses tells Israel, “This is what the Lord has commanded.”  

Three general areas are addressed in chapter 17: 1) the instruction that sacrifices must be offered at the one, legitimate altar near the entrance to the tent of meeting; 2) regulations concerning the blood of animals, both sacrificial and those used for food, and the prohibition against consuming blood; and 3) the prohibition against eating the flesh from carcasses of animals that died or that were torn by beasts.  

Moving on to 18:2, we read that Hashem tells Moses, “Speak to the Israelites . . . ‘I the Lord am your God. You must . . .’” Chapter 18 contains the most systematic and complete collection of laws in the Torah dealing with the subject of incest and forbidden sexual unions. In the process of defining sexual sins, the chapter delineates the limits of the immediate family. In chapter 19, Moses is to tell Israel, “You must be holy for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” Chapter 20 is a continuation of chapter 19 and culminates in verses 24 and 26 where Hashem proclaims, “I am the Lord your God who has set you apart from other peoples. . . . You must be holy to me, for I, the Lord, am holy, and I have set you apart from other peoples to be mine” (20:24, 26). Sandwiched between the two commands to be holy “for I, the Lord your God, am holy” in 19:2 and 20:26 are commands telling us what it means to be holy.  

Some of these imperatives seem rather strange to us today, like the prohibition of wearing clothing made of a mixture of wool and linen (19:19). However, if we look closely, we can see how such commands can be applied to our lives now. Leviticus 19:19 also prohibits planting two different kinds of seeds in the same field and not crossbreeding two different animals. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z’’l suggests that these commands can be fulfilled today by respecting and caring for the environment.[1] Not conforming to idolatry means resisting the idols of our age, time, and area, whatever that may be. Not harvesting the corners of our fields can be understood as treating the poor with dignity and respect, and sharing our blessings with others. We are told not to curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind. These commands can be fulfilled in our days by not insulting others with our speech or actions and not taking advantage of someone, even if they do not know about it. It means doing justice, having honest business practices, and keeping Shabbat.  

Being holy can be summed up in the command to love your neighbor and the alien (stranger, foreigner) as yourself (Lev 19:18, 34). We love our neighbor and the stranger living among us, by not lying, stealing, or deceiving others, not hating, bearing a grudge, spreading gossip or standing by silently when someone else’s life is in danger. It means having the strength of character to go to a person who has hurt us, discuss the incident with them, give them a chance to apologize, and then forgive them. Being holy means being set apart, being distinct. It means having the courage to be different than the world around us. 

We are created in the image of God and called to act in his ways. Though it may seem preposterous or even impossible, we are to be, and can be, holy as Hashem is holy. Living a holy life as presented in the Holiness Code reminds us of the presence of Hashem in our own lives and in the life of the people of Israel. Such a life demonstrates our unique calling as his chosen people and testifies of Hashem’s presence to those around us. Peter reminds us to be holy in every area of life, “for it is written, “You must be holy, because I am holy” (1 Pet 1:6). May we all have the courage to be different, to be holy. 

[1] This section was inspired by Rabbi Sacks’ commentary, “In Search of Jewish Identity” on Acharei Mot-Kedoshim from 5776. The entire commentary can be found at https://rabbisacks.org/search-jewish-identity-kedoshim-5776/.

Doctors of the Soul

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

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

The kohen shall look at the affliction on the skin of the flesh: If the hair in the affliction has changed to white, and the affliction’s appearance is deeper than the skin of the flesh—it is a tzara’at affliction; the kohen shall look at it and declare him contaminated. (Leviticus 13:3, author’s translation)

The Torah requires that the kohen, or priest, examine the person with tzara’at, an apparently severe and contagious skin affliction that is often wrongly translated as leprosy. Yet here in Leviticus chapter 13 the kohen is asked to observe it twice in the same verse. So why is there an obvious redundancy? Rabbi Yisrael Yehoshua Tronk of Kutno, a 19th century posek (a recognized decider of halakha) opined that it is incumbent that when one sees an afflicted person that he also sees him as a whole person. The kohanim were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal. 

Rabbi Yehoshua of Nazareth, the greatest posek of all, is also the Kohen Gadol, the Great High Priest in heaven and earth. The Besorot (Gospels) record many stories of Yeshua healing individuals who are broken. In Luke 14 he chose to heal a man whose entire body was bloated as the result of tzara’at. The healing occurs in the home of a prominent Pharisaic scholar. Apparently, the sick man is in some way related to the household and is just lying suffering and, we might infer, dying. What is ironic is that the group of men who were present had the power to heal but they were largely unaware of it. It was an untapped power, since they preferred to stand in judgment rather than invite the man to the table and see him as anything other than a lost soul. Only those who know they are broken can offer healing to others. 

Some people are not healed because they choose not to be healed. Yeshua once came upon a paraplegic at the pool of Beit-Zata who had been sitting there for years waiting to be lowered into the reputedly therapeutic waters. Yeshua asked the man the most enigmatic question: “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:1–6). The question seems so counter-intuitive. Why else might a sick man wait for therapy? Still, so many people avoid healing both intentionally and inadvertently. They often lower their ideals to accommodate their present ability to fulfill their potential. Oddly many people would rather languish in pain and isolation than risk the failure of trying and trusting. Therefore, Yeshua’s simple remedy was to ask the man to pick up his mat and walk. We are often crippled by our own fear of trying. 

I have always been amazed and inspired by the story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10). Zacchaeus is a tax collector who climbs a tree to get a glimpse of Yeshua. From the reading we can deduce what is obvious in the social-historical context of the text. Tax collectors were considered “sinners,” collaborators with the illegitimate and pagan government. Yeshua’s rhetoric, though, would say anything but that: “Zacchaeus come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” Yeshua goes on to describe Zacchaeus as a “son of Abraham too.” Yeshua is not merely appealing to Zacchaeus’s lineage, rather to a promise of Torah, which in that social context had long since been domesticated and dismissed when it came to Zacchaeus and those like him. The point here is that Zacchaeus accepts Yeshua’s counter-verdict and begins the process of living up to it, giving half his possessions to the poor and paying back four times what he has gained illicitly, twice the degree of repentance prescribed for such an act in Torah. Zacchaeus’ desire and effort to be spiritually healed is matched and encouraged by Yeshua’s desire to see him as he can be rather than as he presently is.

I would offer one more example, this one of a modern-day kohen and the spiritually broken metzorah (“leper”) who crossed the threshold into his life. The story is recorded in the 1995 book, Not by the Sword: How a Cantor and His Family Transformed a Klansman, by Kathryn Watterson.  Michael Weisser was a trained conservative cantor, recently graduated and ordained as such. He was offered the position as spiritual leader of a small synagogue in Lincoln, Nebraska; a synagogue that did not have the resources or appeal to call a rabbi. But shortly after moving his family into a house on Randolph Street in Lincoln he began to receive threatening antisemitic phone calls, “You’ll be sorry you moved into 5810 Randolph Street, Jew-boy.” The calls became more frequent and were accompanied by letters as well. They were all coming from a man named Larry Trapp who had connections and credentials from several white supremacist organizations. He had been terrifying Jews and other minorities in Lincoln for almost a decade. 

The truth is that the terrifying specter of Larry Trapp was merely an illusion. Trapp was a severe diabetic who had already lost both legs to amputation and was confined to a wheel chair. He was a sad, angry, disenfranchised man, a victim of abuse himself, who used terror to try to regain some control over his world in lieu of the acceptance he craved. One day when Trapp called, Cantor Weisser and his wife inexplicably began to read Psalms to him over the phone. Following a series of strange developments during subsequent calls, Cantor Weisser went to visit the man who still was a symbol of fear to his family. He was shocked to see the broken man who had previously terrified him and was appalled at the squalor in which he lived. He continued to visit Larry Trapp until his health had faltered so severely that he could no longer care for himself. Trapp moved in with the Weisser family, and in a still stranger turn of events converted to Judaism and became a member of the family. He lived with the Weisser family for years, and they became his caregivers until his physical maladies from years of abuse overcame him. He was buried in a Jewish cemetery and was remembered fondly by many of the people in the community whom he had previously terrorized. 

To be healed we must see ourselves as whole. To fill our role as a nation of kohanim we must see others as whole. Let us then rise to the occasion.

Pity the Fool

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Ahavat Zion Synagogue, Los Angeles

 In the 1980s adventure series, “The A-Team,” we were given excellent advice by the heavily muscled and menacing B. A. Baracus (Mr. T). That advice?  “Pity the fool.” It was a warning not to get out of one’s depth, and not to presume to battle against someone whose victory would mean your vaporization.  

This week’s parasha presents an excellent argument for taking that advice. Better yet, examining this account yields excellent advice for leadership, advice that’s fantastic and not foolish.

Let’s look at what’s fantastic first, and then at what’s foolish.  

This is the day the people of Israel, from the commoners to the Levites and priests, have completed the complexities of building the Mishkan and together with Aharon have obeyed the detailed instructions given them from the mouth of God through Moshe. Now the graduation ceremony has arrived: the investiture of the priests and what we might term the ribbon-cutting for the Tabernacle.

Aharon raised his hands toward the people, blessed them and came down from offering the sin offering, the burnt offering and the peace offerings. Moshe and Aharon entered the tent of meeting, came out and blessed the people. Then the glory of Adonai appeared to all the people! Fire came forth from the presence of Adonai, consuming 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)

The God of Israel is the commencement speaker at this event, and with his fire from heaven he speaks his approval of the entire project, and of Moshe and Aharon who have modeled obedience to his directives, diligence in their work, and an orientation toward being agents of blessing for the people of God. This is leadership excellence. This is fantastic. And it deserves God’s dramatic, fiery Amen! 

Then we have the fools, who indeed are to be pitied.  

Nadav and Avihu are Aharon’s sons, therefore, nephews of Moshe. They have been ordained and invested as priests, by the command of God and through the agency of Moshe and Aharon. It is as if they have graduated summa cum laude from the best school possible, Mishkan University. They have it made. And they throw it all away.

But Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aharon, each took his censer, put fire in it, laid incense on it, and offered unauthorized fire before Adonai, something he had not ordered them to do. At this, fire came forth from the presence of Adonai and consumed them, so that they died in the presence of Adonai. 

Moshe said to Aharon, “This is what Adonai said:

‘Through those who are near me I will be consecrated,
and before all the people I will be glorified.’” (Lev 10:1–3a)

The holy fire that falls here is not a validation but a vaporization. It is God’s judgment, not his Amen. But why?

The rabbis of our people supply multiple interpretations: Nadav and Avihu were drunk when they entered the sanctuary; they were improperly clothed; they had not washed their hands and feet; they were unmarried; they had entered the holy place without authorization; or they had expounded the Torah in the presence of Moshe, their teacher. 

Torah supplies us with clues as to the “why” of this tragedy. First, Moshe, speaking for God, says, “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified.” Nadav and Avihu were not involved in consecrating God, in treating him as holy. They were up to something else. If they had been involved in treating Adonai as holy, they would have been doing as Moshe and Aharon had done: obeying his directives, doing their work diligently, and seeking to serve as agents of blessing for the people of God. But that is not what they are doing.

I suggest they are trying to manipulate the manifestation of the glory of God, the fire from heaven. That’s a crazy idea, but Torah provides a clue as to how they got so stupid.

In the aftermath of the death of Aharon’s two sons, Hashem tells him:

Don’t drink any wine or other intoxicating liquor, neither you nor your sons with you, when you enter the tent of meeting, so that you will not die. This is to be a permanent regulation through all your generations, so that you will distinguish between the holy and the common, and between the unclean and the clean; and so that you will teach the people of Isra’el all the laws Adonai has told them through Moshe. (Lev 10:9–10)

Apparently, in celebrating their big day, Nadav and Avihu had gotten tipsy, or worse, drunk. Then then came into the Mishkan, perhaps hoping to get Adonai to do a repeat performance of his amazing send-the-fire-trick. What they were doing had nothing to do with obedience to God, with diligent service, or with blessing the people. And it had nothing to do with bringing glory to God.

The contrast between these fools, Nadav and Avihu, and Moshe and Aharon could not be more stark. Throughout the account, Moshe and Aharon are strictly obedient to the commands of Adonai. When Moshe relays Adonai’s verdict to Aharon, “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified,” the text says Aharon kept silent. Not a word of complaint.  

Before this, Moshe had given directives to Aharon and his remaining sons: 

Don’t unbind your hair or tear your clothes in mourning, so that you won’t die and so that Adonai won’t be angry with the entire community. Rather, let your kinsmen — the whole house of Isra’el — mourn, because of the destruction Adonai brought about with his fire. Moreover, don’t leave the entrance to the tent of meeting, or you will die, because Adonai’s anointing oil is on you. (Lev 10:6– 7)

Again, not a word of complaint. Instead, obedience and diligence for the sake of God’s blessing on his people.  

The lesson for us and for our day is clear. A fantastic leader will be one who models obedience to God’s word, diligence in his service, and an orientation toward being a blessing to his people. A foolish leader will be impressed by his own station and will even seek to manipulate the presence of God for his own purposes and satisfaction. Instead of being sober in his service, he will be drunk, if not with wine, then at least intoxicated with his own juices.  

He forgets Adonai’s admonition: “Through those who are near me I will be consecrated, and before all the people I will be glorified.” 

Pity the fool.

The Afikomen: My Body Broken for You

Pesach 5781

by Jared Eaton, Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

During the festival of Pesach, Jewish families around the world connect themselves to one of the greatest stories ever told by celebrating the Passover Seder, an interactive dinner where we retell the story of the Exodus from Egypt.

But a lesser-known Passover tradition is the Seudat Mashiach, or Messiah’s Meal. Instituted by the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chasidic Judaism, in the 1700s, the Messiah’s Meal is eaten on the final day of Passover and looks forward to future divine deliverance.

The haftarah for the final day of Passover is from the book of Isaiah, and includes prophecies of a leader upon whom “the spirit of the Lord shall rest, a spirit of wisdom and understanding, a spirit of counsel and heroism, a spirit of knowledge and fear of the Lord” (Isa 11:2).

It has become traditional to usher out Passover by looking forward to the arrival of this Messiah and the redemption that he will bring to the world. Messiah’s Meal has become a beloved tradition for some believers in Yeshua who combine the traditions of Seudat Mashiach with our understanding of the identity of the Messiah. But even the traditional first night Seder points to Messiah Yeshua, and perhaps in no place more clearly than in the hiding of the Afikomen.

For the uninitiated, one of the traditions of the Passover Seder is a special bag called a matzah tash that has three compartments, each with a piece of matzah, unleavened bread, in it. The tradition is to take the middle piece out and break it in half. Half of the matzah is placed back in the matzah tash, but the other half is wrapped in a linen napkin. This piece is called the Afikomen.

Afikomen (epikomon, ἐπὶ κῶμον) is a Greek word that means “that which comes after” or “dessert,” and is a substitute for the Passover sacrifice, which was the last thing eaten at the Passover Seder during the eras of the First and Second Temples (Talmud, Pesachim 119b).

The Afikomen is hidden by an adult for the duration of the first part of the Seder, and after dinner the children search for it and bring it back to their parents to be redeemed for a prize. Traditionally, the Seder cannot end until the Afikomen is found and redeemed.

It’s a beloved tradition, but Judaism has no authoritative explanation as to the origin or the meaning of the Afikomen. A number of diverse and often conflicting theories have emerged over the centuries. One tradition holds that the three pieces of matzah represent the three classes of Jews, the Priests, the Levites, and the Israelites. Another that they represent Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But these are later innovations; they are not mentioned in the tractates on Passover in either the Mishnah or the Talmud. And even if this were the case then why do we break the middle piece? What would breaking the Priests or Isaac accomplish? Some rabbis believe that breaking the matzah represents the splitting of the Red Sea, but if that’s the case why do we hide one piece of . . . the ocean? One tradition, cited  by the Chasidic Lubavitcher Rebbe in his Haggadah, even says that we hide the Afikomen so that it doesn’t get eaten by accident before the meal is over.

None of these theories is satisfying. But there is one other that I think makes perfect sense. One that ties all of the symbolism together and tells a cohesive story. And that theory, first presented by Austrian-Jewish scholar Robert Eisler in 1925, is that that the tradition of the Afikomen was conceived by the first century Jewish followers of Yeshua, and that the Afikomen is a symbol of our Messiah.[1]

The very appearance of the matzah and the way it’s prepared is indicative of Yeshua. Matzah has stripes burned into from the oven rack and must be pierced to allow air to escape to prevent it from rising. In the same way, our Messiah was striped by the lash and his hands and feet were pierced by nails.

The three compartments of the matzah tash represent three ways that we experience God, through the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And we take the middle piece, representing the Son, and we break it, as Yeshua was broken for us.

After his death on the cross, Yeshua’s body was wrapped in a linen shroud and hidden away for three days until his resurrection. So too, we wrap the Afikomen in a linen cloth and hide it away until the end of the Seder.

When the meal ends, the children search for the Afikomen and bring it to be redeemed. In this act, we are emulating the redemption that we have in the Father through the sacrifice of Messiah Yeshua. For just as Yeshua, through his death and resurrection, has redeemed us from sin and death, the Afikomen too must be redeemed by the father of the family.

And how fitting is it that it is the children who go to seek Yeshua? Messiah taught that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the children (Matt 19:14), and indeed we ourselves must change and become like little children if we wish to enter the Kingdom of heaven with them (Matt 18:3).

And just as the Seder cannot end until the Afikomen comes back, the Kingdom of Heaven will not be established until the return of the Messiah.

It’s true that the Word “Afikomen” is often translated as “that which comes after”, but according to David Daube, a preeminent twentieth-century scholar of Biblical Law, a better translation is (aphikomenos Αφικομενός) “the one who has arrived.” [2]

And if nothing else, we know that Yeshua himself has likened the matzah of the Passover meal to his body. At the last supper, the Passover Seder he ate before he suffered, Yeshua took the matzah, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is broken for you; this do in remembrance of me” (1 Cor. 11:24 KJV).

On Passover, the Jewish people connect themselves to one of the greatest stories ever told. And believers in Messiah Yeshua also connect ourselves to another story, one told nearly 1500 years after God freed the Hebrew slaves. This Passover, as we break, hide, and redeem the Afikomen, “the one who has arrived,” we all look forward to and share in the deliverance we have in Messiah Yeshua. 

Chag Pesach Sameach!

[1] “Das Letzte Abendmahl” [The Final Supper], appeared in the journal Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft [ZNW] Vol. 24 (1925): 161-92 and Vol. 25 (1926): 5-37.

[2] Daube, D. (1966). He that cometh (pp. 6-14). London: Tolley.

Resurrection: The Story that Defines Us

Passover 5781

 Rabbi Russ Resnik

As we prepare for Passover this year, there’s lots to do—cleaning the leaven out of our houses; buying the right food; inviting family and guests to the Seder, whether in-person or on-screen; and preparing the feast. Amidst all these preparations, it’s vital to remember that we’ll be telling and hearing and even acting out a story, a story that defines who we are and what our lives are about.

In his book After Virtue, philosopher Alisdair MacIntyre writes that the human being is “essentially a story-telling animal.”  

Deprive children of stories and you leave them unscripted, anxious stutterers in their actions as in their words. Hence there is no way to give an understanding of any society, including our own, except through the stock of stories which constitute its initial dramatic resources. (p. 216)

 All the stories that constitute the “dramatic resources” of the Jewish people draw upon or orbit around the grand narrative of our redemption from Egypt, the Passover story. It’s no wonder, then, that the ritual of Passover is meant to arouse the curiosity of our children through every generation. Keeping this ritual is a set-up to telling the story of Passover:

 When you come to the land that Adonai will give you, as he has promised, you are to keep this service. And when your children ask you, “What do you mean by this service?” you shall say, “It is the sacrifice of Adonai’s Passover, because he passed over the houses of the people of Israel in Egypt, when he struck the Egyptians but spared our houses.” (Exod 12:25–27; see also 13:8, 14–15)

 Later, Moses instructs the Israelites to tell the story again, in response to a question our children might ask, not just about the Passover ritual but about all the customs of Torah:

When your son or daughter asks you in time to come, “What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that Adonai our God has commanded you?” then you shall say to them, “We were Pharaoh’s slaves in Egypt. And Adonai brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand. And Adonai showed signs and wonders, great and grievous, against Egypt and against Pharaoh and all his household, before our eyes. And he brought us out from there, that he might bring us in and give us the land that he swore to give to our ancestors. And Adonai commanded us to do all these statutes, to fear Adonai our God, for our good always, that he might preserve us alive, as we are this day.” (Deut 6:20–24)

The Lord provides a story that can be told and retold to keep alive the meaning of Passover—and ultimately the meaning of the whole Torah—for every generation. It’s a story that reminds us who we are, Israel, a people bound in covenant to the Lord.

It’s no wonder, then, that when the Lord sends his Messiah to reveal himself to Israel, the Messiah enters into Israel’s foundational story. His final journey to Jerusalem, where he will be handed over to the gentiles and executed, joins a pilgrimage for Passover. Messiah Yeshua celebrates the Passover with his followers within Jerusalem, joining the multitudes who are observing the festival. It is during Passover that Yeshua is offered up as a sacrificial lamb, providing the ransom for his people. And it is during Passover that Yeshua rises again from the dead. Through both of these mighty deeds Yeshua enters fully into the Passover story, not setting it aside or replacing it, but fully embodying it on behalf of his own people.

During Passover, Luke tells us, the risen Messiah met two of his followers, Cleopas and an unnamed companion, on a road leading out from Jerusalem. Before revealing himself to them, Yeshua asks why they seem so downcast. They tell him about “Yeshua of Natzeret, a man who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people,” who had been condemned to death and crucified a couple of days earlier, even though “we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” Yeshua, still unrecognized, reproves them for not believing the words of the prophets: “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and enter into his glory?” (Luke 24:13-26). It was necessary not only to fulfill specific prophecies, but to reflect the overall death-to-life trajectory of the divine plan of salvation. Messiah’s suffering and glory are both essential to the whole plan.

Accordingly, then, “beginning with Moses and from all the Prophets, Yeshua interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself” (Luke 24:27). Why does he begin with Moses in this on-the-spot Bible study? Because the death-resurrection linkage is evident throughout the story of redemption that Moses tells. From Canaan, the family of Jacob went down to Egypt, descending from the land of promise to the land of bondage, the land of death. From Egypt, as we recite during the Seder, the Lord “took us out from slavery to freedom, from sorrow to joy, from mourning to festivity, from darkness to great light, and from bondage to redemption. Let us, therefore, sing before him a new song. Halleluyah!” In Scripture, from Moses on, death sets the stage for resurrection, including the death-to-life redemption of Israel that Cleopas and his companion were hoping for.

To this day, the shared story breaks through our isolation and confusion to reveal the meaning of our lives. The story of our redemption from Egypt provides the meaning that defines us, especially as we recognize the account of Messiah’s death and resurrection within it.

If resurrection is our defining story, then, what does that mean for how we live today? That question could lead to a whole drash on its own, so I’ll confine myself to one implication especially relevant to the era of Covid disruption and post-Covid uncertainty: Negative events don’t shake our resurrection foundations.

We neither deny adversity nor seek it out—but when it comes, we know it carries within it the promise of resurrection, new life, new energy, and renewed awareness of God’s presence, for which negative events often set the stage. We are not left “unscripted and anxious,” as Professor MacIntyre puts it. Instead we can face whatever comes without despondency and fear, like Cleopas and his friend who found their hearts burning within them as they heard from the risen Messiah. Or like their frightened companions in Jerusalem, who were also reproved by Yeshua: “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” (Luke 24:38). They were troubled by the sight of Yeshua among them, when they thought he was dead and buried, but the master’s words apply to us all, no matter the circumstances: “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?”

Messiah Yeshua’s resurrection is the story that defines us. This Passover, may we remember it and tell it out loud to renew our hope and confidence in God, no matter what events around us might bring. In the resurrection story, adversity never writes the final line.

 Scripture references are adapted from the ESV.

The Offering that Brings Peace

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1–5:26 [6:7]

Michael Hillel, Netanya, Israel

Last week’s parasha, Vayakhel-Pekudei, ended with the setup and dedication of the Mishkan or Tabernacle, and then its infilling with the glory of Hashem as he took up residence in the midst of the Israelite camp. This week’s reading begins the third book of the Torah of Moses and interestingly has neither an introduction, nor apparent transition from the construction, setup, and infilling of the Mishkan. Rather, from the way the book begins, it would seem that the tabernacle was already fully operative. “Now Adonai called to Moses and spoke to him out of the Tent of Meeting, saying: ‘Speak to Bnei-Yisrael, and tell them . . .’” (Lev 1:1–2a).

The rest of the parasha deals with numerous korbanot or offerings. I will not be looking at all the offering covered, only the third one, zevach sh’lamim or the peace or fellowship offering, described in chapter 3.

The zevach sh’lamim was brought for the purpose of expressing thanks or gratitude to Hashem for his bounty, and/or for his mercies on behalf of the one making the offering. In both the Mishkan and the Temple, a portion of the offering was burnt on the altar, a portion was given to the kohen (priest) to consume, and the rest was eaten by the one who brought the offering and his family; hence everyone received a part of the offering.

This was not a required offering, but an optional one that could be brought when the one bringing it desired to do so. The zevach sh’lamim provided an opportunity for the offerer, his family, and the presiding kohen to share in a sacred meal together. It has been suggested that such a meal foreshadowed the communal meal instituted by Yeshua with his talmidim, which later became a regular occurrence in the growing ecclesia, the body of Messiah.

It should also be noted that this optional zevach sh’lamim was a costly offering. The only two options were either unblemished sheep or goats. It was not a matter of simply deciding on a whim to offer a zevach sh’lamim, rather it took forethought and planning to ensure the sacrifice would be acceptable by the kohen to be presented to Hashem. With the idea of forethought and planning in mind, consider these words of Yeshua:

Therefore if you are presenting your offering upon the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and present your offering. (Matt 5:23–24)

In other words, it seems that one’s offering would not be acceptable to Hashem unless one were in right relationship with others—at least as much as is possible. Granted, this is true for all offerings, but I suggest that it is especially true for the zevach sh’lamim. How could one approach Hashem in an attitude of thanksgiving when he or she has enmity and strife with others in his or her sphere of influence? In a Taste of Torah, Keren Hannah Pryor reminds us that the “importance of the korban, then lies in the restoration of a right relationship between man and God, as well as the rehabilitation that results in right relationships between man and man.” *  

Before leaving this point, I want to clarify the phrase above, “at least as much as is possible,” concerning making peace with a brother. Rav Shaul wrote these words to the Yeshua-believers in Rome: “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live in shalom with all people” (Rom 12:18). 

There may be times, when someone does all that they can to make restitution with another, to restore a relationship that once was, when this just cannot be accomplished. The hurt or the schism may be too deep for the other to forgive or to accept the attempt at restoration. In cases such as these, all that we can do is turn the situation over to Hashem and trust in his mercy and grace to cover it, while hoping that things might change in the future. Continuing with this thought, the writer of Hebrews encourages his readers to . . .

Pursue shalom with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God; and see to it that no bitter root springs up and causes trouble, and by it many be defiled. (Heb 12:14–15)

Shalom, true peace, is not the absence of conflict, disagreement, or even pain; it is knowing that we do not face these challenges alone, and that the one who shares them with us adds his strength to our weakness, enabling us to endure—even if the challenges lead “through the valley of the shadow of death” (Psa 23:4). Shalom is the confidence in knowing that there something else, or better yet someone else, who stands beyond these perceived challenges, who has already overcome each challenge that we face and so much more, while at the same time telling each of us that he is there to assist us through no matter what.

Today, we can bring our zevach sh’lamim, at least metaphorically, before our high priest, Yeshua, expressing our thanksgiving to the Father for his bounty and mercy in our lives. Each time we share in the communal celebration of Zichron Mashiach Yeshua (the Lord’s Supper) it is as if we are sharing our portion of the zevach sh’lamim sacrifice with our brothers and sisters.

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

* Keren Hannah Pryor. A Taste of Torah: A Devotional Study Through the Five Books of Moses (Marshfield, MO: First Fruits of Zion, 2016), 122.

Our Worship: Managed or Mysterious?

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

Rabbi Russ Resnik

“I don’t believe in organized religion.” That’s a common response when we try to talk about faith with someone who’s unaffiliated. If I’m talking with someone about Messianic Judaism in particular, I might respond, “Don’t worry, we’re not that organized.”  

This rejection of organized religion usually rests on the assumption that faith and spirituality are, and should be, intensely personal, that it’s up to each person to discover his or her own way to worship, and that all these matters are best kept private. But what we see in Exodus, the Torah’s preeminent book of worship, would seem to be the exact opposite.  

Worship in Hebrew is avodah, which is also the word for service or labor. Israel has served Pharaoh, and now they will serve God. We might even say that Israel has worshiped Pharaoh—the verb is the same in Hebrew—and now they will worship God. They have devoted their time, abilities, and energies to the glory of Pharaoh, and now they must devote their time, abilities, and energies to the glory of God. Pharaoh, however, believes the people must serve him, so Hashem instructs Moses to tell him, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Let my people go, that they may serve me’” (8:20 [16]).

Here in three Hebrew words we have the theme of the entire book of Exodus: Shalach ami v’ya’avduni—“Let my people go, that they may serve [worship] me.” The first half of this phrase, Shalach ami, “let my people go,” describes the first half of Exodus, in which the God of Israel forces Pharaoh to release his people. This half concludes with the arrival at Mount Sinai. The second half, v’ya’avduni, “that they may worship me,” begins with the encounter at Sinai and details the building of the tabernacle, where Israel will worship the Lord, who dwells in their midst.   

At first, this part of Exodus looks like religion at its most organized. The instructions for worship, for building the tabernacle and all its equipment, and for inaugurating the priesthood are extensive. Nothing is left to human invention, as Hashem tells Moses: “Exactly as I show you concerning the pattern of the tabernacle, and of all its furniture, so you shall make it” (Exod 25:9). The structure of the narrative itself underscores the gravity and precision of making the tabernacle: Seven chapters, Exodus 25–31, are given to instructions for building, culminating with a reminder to keep Shabbat; five chapters, Exodus 35–39, begin with another reminder about Shabbat and detail the assembly of the components of the tabernacle and the clothing of the priests; one final chapter, Exodus 40, portrays the actual construction.  

All this may seem like organized religion to the max . . . until we hear the end of the story. 

So Moses finished the work. Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. And Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. Throughout all their journeys, whenever the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the people of Israel would set out. But if the cloud was not taken up, then they did not set out till the day that it was taken up. For the cloud of the Lord was on the tabernacle by day, and fire was in it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel throughout all their journeys. (Exod 40:33b–38)

Note the poetry of these final verses. In each verse, the word “cloud” appears, with the defining phrase, “the cloud of the Lord,” in the final verse. In addition, the phrase “glory of the Lord” appears twice, for a total of seven mentions of the divine presence. Seven, of course, is the number of perfection, and the tabernacle is perfected only now as the glory-cloud fills it. To underline this truth the identical phrase, “and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle,” is stated twice.  

To understand true worship, we need to pay attention to one additional phrase here: “Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud settled on it.” No matter how organized the religion of Exodus may be, it is in the end mysterious. God reveals his ways and his instructions, but remains always beyond our understanding, always other and more than all we know and all we might experience. At the heart of true worship is always mystery, today as in the days of Moses.  

When I outlined the final section of Exodus above, I left out three chapters, Exodus 32–34, which recount the worship of the golden calf and the restoration of the covenant afterward. Like its whole context, this section is also about worship, and also in a way about organized religion, but it’s organized by human design, not by divine revelation.

We might call it religion that is managed, in contrast with the religion that is mysterious.  

Worship of the golden calf is managed worship, a human initiative to resolve a pervasive human problem, uncertainty and the resultant fear. “When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered themselves together to Aaron and said to him, ‘Up, make us gods who shall go before us . . .’” (Exod 32:1a). The calf reflects a human concept of deity, and human creativity gone amok, as “the people had broken loose” (Exod 32:25). Its worship ends in chaos, but at its core it is managed, limited to human definitions and serving human desires. It lacks the mystery that defines true worship.  

Today, we live in an increasingly man-made world, a world intent on elevating the human above the divine, on putting the divine at the service of the human. We live with values no longer based on “We” but on “I,” as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, describes in his recent book Morality: Restoring the Common Good in Divided Times. The I-centered worldview rejects what it calls organized religion in favor of a person-centered, self-exalting private religion that can be customized according to individual needs and preferences. Religion as accessory—it’s a lot more comfortable than the mysterious religion revealed in Scripture, but in the end it leaves us as solitary and isolated selves.  

The great project of worship in Exodus began with a command: “And let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell in their midst” (Exod 25:8). The final scene of Exodus reminds us that even as God dwells in our midst, he remains always beyond us. Even as God dwells amid his people through the presence of Messiah Yeshua, our worship remains ultimately mysterious, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Cor 13:12). In the meantime, we embrace the mysterious, even as we worship the God who is present among us.

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