In Praise of Freedom

Photo: sheldonkirshner.com

Passover 5782

Ben Volman, UMJC Vice President

In a world that is coping with unrelenting plagues and an autocrat's callous war on helpless civilians, observing Passover has never seemed more relevant. We’ve rediscovered the value and fragility of our freedom. People are rethinking choices that feel new again. They’re asking: “What will I do now, where will I go, how will I live?” The watchword of freedom has rarely burned so brightly.

For Israel, the message of freedom at Passover has never diminished over the millennia. The Seder has kept the experience fresh in our national memory as it embodies the promise that God hears and responds to the cries of his people. “Avadim hayinu l’Pharoah b’Mitzraim . . . We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt and the Lord our God brought us out of there with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.”

 Moreover, the story of Passover has become a spark of hope wherever Bible readers yearned for freedom. As the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks noted: in every other setting, the gods of this world were propping up the kings, tyrants and emperors. Rulers imagined they were gods or the children of gods. It seemed right for the strong to rule the weak.

 “That God,” said Sacks, “creator of heaven and earth, might intervene in history to liberate slaves was the ultimately unthinkable.” Yet, it was in his power to reverse the world’s hierarchies and raise up those who were cast down; to side with the humble—the widow, the orphan and stranger; to sovereignly declare freedom for the oppressed.

The war in Ukraine has linked all our personal reflections with a more pressing confrontation; sometimes there is a battle to gain freedom from tyranny. We’d only be in denial to think that all the darkest hours of tyranny are behind us. Today we are witnessing cold-blooded actions that have recklessly killed thousands of civilians and displaced millions. There are times when the battle for freedom demands that we take up arms and there is no telling where the current conflict may lead, despite the restraint of our leaders.

In Egypt, it was only through the power of God exercising his will against the gods of Egypt that the conflict with Pharaoh didn’t climax in a battle of arms. Moshe had already failed while trying to take the path of violence. The challenge was one of faith and perseverance. Israel didn’t even need to fight the final battle with Pharaoh. Instead, Moshe commanded, “Stop being so fearful! Remain steady, and you will see how God is going to save you” (Exod 14:13).

Down through the centuries, through the darkest days and nights of Israel’s history, the Seder has never failed to give us hope. God hears the cries of his people and will not fail to save them. Every year we explain our faith to a new generation as our own personal experience: “It is because of what Adonai did for me when I left Egypt” (Exod 13:8; see also 12:27). And as the Haggadah reminds us, we were saved by our God: “Not through an angel, not through a seraph, not through an emissary. No, it was the Holy One, his glory, his own presence.”

Yeshua’s Seder, too, is focused on the presence of God’s power to save. While his disciples are subdued, Yeshua, who alone knows fully what will take place within hours, assures them that their hearts should not be troubled—they will know how to follow him. When they question how that is possible, he answers “I AM the Way—and the Truth and the Life” (John 14:6).

The sacrifice that will make him our Passover lamb for all time is his ultimate act by choice:

I lay down my life—in order to take it up again!  No one takes it away from me; on the contrary, I lay it down of my own free will. I have the power to lay it down, and I have the power to take it up again. (John 10:17–18)

Even as Yeshua prepares to leave for Gethsemane, he provides reassuring promises of hope that his followers will not be able to understand until later:

I no longer call you slaves, because a slave doesn’t know what his master is about; but I have called you friends, because everything I have heard from the Father, I have made known to you . . . and I have commissioned you to go and bear fruit. (John 15:15–16)  

And later:

So you do indeed feel grief now, but I am going to see you again. Then your hearts will be full of joy, and no one will take your joy away from you. (John 16:22)

In a powerful sermon I’ve long admired, Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke of his own midnight crisis. It followed a sinister threatening phone call. It was day 381 of the Montgomery bus strike. “You’ve got to call on that something . . .” he said. “That power that can make a way out of no way. . . . I could hear an inner voice saying ‘stand up for righteousness, stand up for truth.’”

 The city had taken legal action against the car pools getting strikers to their jobs. His people knew this could end their strike. King described the despair as “darker than a thousand midnights.” That afternoon, as they waited for the judge’s decision, the courtroom was buzzing when King was handed a press release: The Supreme Court today unanimously ruled bus segregation unconstitutional in Montgomery, Alabama. “The darkest hour of our struggle,” said King, “had become the first hour of victory.”

Why is this night different from all other nights? Thousands of years ago, we were slaves in Egypt, waiting by night behind doorways covered by the blood of a lamb. It was all that shielded us from death. By faith we entrusted our lives to God who sent us to freedom. Dayenu! It was sufficient.

 All biblical citations are from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB).

How to Use Your Tongue for Good

Parashat Metzora: Leviticus 14:1-15:33

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

Our parasha this week focuses mainly on tzara’at, a skin disease that historically has been mistranslated as leprosy. Our Sages have understood this ailment to be more spiritual than physical. It was a supernatural illness brought on by lashon hara. This term literally means “evil tongue” and refers to gossip, slander, and causing embarrassment. It is often called evil speech. The reason for this connection between tzara’at and lashon hara is that Miryam is struck with the disease after defaming her brother, Moshe (Num 12:1-16). 

A lot of ink has been spilled over the centuries about the evils of lashon hara. Not as much has been said, however, on its corollary, lashon hatov, good speech. That’s what I would like us to focus on today.

We see a dispute in two passages in the Talmud over giving praise to others. The first, in Masechet Arachin, says: “Rav Dimi, brother of Rav Safra said, let no one ever talk in praise of his neighbor, for praise will lead to criticism.”

Rashi says the reason for this injunction is that one will realize that he has overstated the praise and have to qualify it, admitting that the person also has faults or, alternatively, others will feel compelled to point out the person’s faults. The issue for Rashi is whether your speech is accurate or not.

Rambam disagrees. For him it is not an issue of truth, but of context. He says: “Whoever speaks well of his neighbor in the presence of his enemies is guilty of a secondary form of evil speech, since he will provoke them to speak badly about him.” 

Rambam permits lashon hatov if it is done in the presence of friends, but forbids it in the presence of their detractors.

The second disagreement about lashon hatov is between Hillel and Shammai in a famous passage from Masechet Ketubot about praising a bride.

Our Rabbis taught: How should you dance before the bride? The disciples of Hillel hold that at a wedding you should sing that the bride is beautiful, whether she is or not. Shammai’s disciples disagree. Whatever the occasion, don’t tell a lie. “Do you call that a lie?” the Hillelites respond. “In the eyes of the groom at least, the bride is beautiful.” 

Shammai, like Rashi, has his focus on truth. Hillel, like Rambam, is focused on context. This dichotomy reminds me of the Myers-Briggs theory of personality. Thinkers are focused on truth, whereas Feelers tend to focus on emotional intelligence and are concerned for how people will react to what is being said. Thinkers are known for being blunt and often not even realizing that their statements may cause offense, whereas Feelers can be accused of avoiding the issue, instead focusing on peace in the situation.

Can we think of lashon hatov as a mitzvah? Rambam thinks so. He says that it derives from the command to love your neighbor as yourself. We are obligated to speak well of others and to emphasize their good points. This is what Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai is doing in Pirke Avot 2:11 when he praises his disciples:

Eliezer ben Hyrcanus: a plastered well that never loses a drop.

Yehoshua ben Chananya:  happy the one who gave him birth.

Yose the Priest:  a pious man.

Shimon ben Netanel:  a man who fears sin.

Elazar ben Arach: an ever-flowing spring.

The very first statement in Pirke Avot encourages us to raise up many disciples. How do you do this? By encouraging them to become most fully who they are, for them to reach their full potential. It is not trying to make them into your own image or what you think they should do but to spur them on in their own talents. This is exactly what Rabbi Yochanan is doing in this passage. He is taking a Hillel-Rambam approach to lashon hatov. He is using speech to encourage them to grow. Perhaps Eliezar ben Hyrcanus was not terribly creative but he certainly had an amazing memory. Yose the Priest may not have been the best student, but he was apparently strenuous in his devotion to Hashem.

Lashon hara diminishes both the speaker and the subject. It tears people down, inhibits their growth. Lashon hatov spurs them onward to the best “them” that they can be. The world tends to see people’s faults, but God sees their potential. Therefore, lashon hatov is looking at others with the eyes of God, and speaking in such a way to lift them up. This is reflected in Rav Shaul’s urging to the Yeshua-followers in Ephesus, “Let no harmful language come from your mouth, only good words that are helpful in meeting the need, words that will benefit those who hear them” (Eph 4:29 CJB).

Yeshua exemplified his Father’s vision of people in all that he said and did. He looked at those whom society denigrated, condemned, and ignored and saw them as the precious children of God that they were. A famous example of this is when the sinful woman bursts into the house of a Parush (Pharisee) and anoints Yeshua’s feet. The Parush  says to himself, “If this man was a prophet he would know what kind of woman is touching him.” Yeshua, perceiving the man’s thoughts, responds with a mashal (a parable) that essentially said, “Yes. I do know who is touching me. A dear child of my Father’s who has repented of her sins.”

Mother Teresa used to talk about “Caring for Jesus in his distressing disguise.” But this doesn’t only apply to people who are made ugly by disease or wounds. It also refers to people with ugly personalities.  They are still humans created in Hashem’s image, however distorted that may be at the moment. They need to be built up, not torn down. 

I recently found an index card that I used to have taped to my monitor at my previous job that said “Everyone needs more kindness than they deserve.” It’s a quote from some article or book that I read years ago. One of my co-workers wrote on the bottom of it, “You deserve it, Izi, you are a great guy!” But they misunderstood my reason for having it. It was to remind me to be kind to others even if they annoyed the heck out of me!

What we need to keep in mind is that someone whom we consider unpleasant or “ugly” is probably loved and respected by others. Just as the bride is always beautiful to the groom, others are always beautiful to someone. We cannot take our opinions of someone and cast them as solid truth.

Perhaps ironically, it is Shammai, known for his harshness, who urges us to greet people well. In Pirke Avot he is quoted as saying: “Receive everyone with a pleasant countenance.”

Rabbi Akiva said that the greatest commandment in the Torah is to love one’s neighbor as oneself. Shimon ben Azzai disagreed. He said the greatest was found in Genesis 5:1 “When God created humanity, he made them in the likeness of God.” We are called upon to treat others with dignity and respect because they are created in his image, even if we don’t like the outside appearances. Moreover, we are required to speak lashon hatov of them and to them in order to build them up, encouraging them to grow into Hashem’s image.

I would like to add that lashon hatov does not always mean that we have to praise everyone. It can mean correcting someone, but it must be done with love and humility. Rav Shaul says in :

A slave of the Lord shouldn't fight. On the contrary, he should be kind to everyone, a good teacher, and not resentful when mistreated. Also he should be gentle as he corrects his opponents. For God may perhaps grant them the opportunity to turn from their sins. (2 Tim 2:24-25a CJB)

Lashon hatov can be praising someone, but it can also be a gentle correction.

May we increase our lashon hatov, our good speech.

May we seek to build others up and spur them on to be the best “them” they can be.

May we hone our eyesight to see others as God sees them.

And thus see Hashem’s face in their distressing disguise.

Pause to Wonder

Parashat Tazria, Leviticus 12:1–13:59                                                            

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Ahavat Zion Messianic Synagogue, Santa Monica, CA                 

The twelfth chapter of Vayikra, Leviticus, is one of the most controversial and misunderstood passages in Torah. It speaks of rituals connected with women being sequestered after childbirth, and the sacrifices they must bring to then return to full communal participation. The term of sequestering and the sacrifices double when the baby is a girl and not a boy. This ordinance appears to label child-bearing women unclean, and doubly so when the newborn is a girl. What’s going on here?

In part, this controversy is rooted in misunderstanding the terms employed. The Hebrew terms tamei and tahor are not equivalent to the English terms “unclean” and “clean,” as some translations have it. Instead they connote being temporarily disqualified (tamei) or qualified (tahor) for contact with holy objects and holy space. It was a matter of temporary spiritual quarantine. Then, after bringing required sacrifices, and washing in living (moving) water, the woman was free to resume full communal access.

But what’s the reason for all this mumbo jumbo? Let’s look at how people became tamei, temporarily disqualified from contact with the holy. This could happen through contact with a corpse, to men having a seminal discharge and women in their time of menstruation, through childbirth, and through having a loathsome skin disease (such as leprosy). Conservative Rabbi Stephen Weiss tells us that when a person healed of such a loathsome skin disease offered a sacrifice marking their return to normalized status, this was sometimes called “the sacrifice of one who has returned from the dead.”  

And what do these bodily conditions all have in common? They all involve contact with the mysterious boundary between life and death. The reason we become ritually separated at such a time is to acknowledge that we have touched that boundary. It is to remind us of the wonder of it all, and to provide occasion to recover equilibrium before returning to full participation in religious communal life. This time of waiting was a time to pause to wonder.  

And why were women required to give double the sacrifices and remain quarantined for double the time when giving birth to a girl? This is because such a birth doubly put her in contact with the boundary between life and death because a female child would herself be able to bear children. See it as a tribute to our first mother, Havah, also known as Eve, of whom it is written in B’reishit/Genesis 3:20, “The man called his wife Havah [life], because she was the mother of all living.”

The capacity for wonder is fast disappearing in our day. But wonder is holy: it reminds us there is something, or Someone, beyond ourselves. Wonder causes us to sense and seek God. I am reminded of Ceil Rosen, of blessed memory, who was an atheist until she was pregnant with Lyn, her first child. At that time wonder overtook her, and she opened the door of her heart and mind to consider the Source of all things wonderful. Wonder whispers, speaks, and even shouts about God.

The eighth chapter of Sefer Tehillim (The Book of Psalms) describes the spirituality of wonder: 

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and stars that you set in place—
what are mere mortals, that you concern yourself with them;
humans, that you watch over them with such care?

This is a perfect portrayal of how perceiving a beauty, immensity, or grandeur beyond ourselves causes us to realize how small we are in comparison.  

Wonder is profoundly theological because it moves us toward worship. Paul considered this mystery when he said, “For ever since the creation of the universe his invisible qualities—both his eternal power and his divine nature—have been clearly seen, because they can be understood from what he has made” (Rom 1:20).  

Encountering the created world should inspire wonder. But that is not how paganized humankind responds, where the absence of wonder breeds idolatry. Paul tells us, 

Therefore, they have no excuse; because, although they know who God is, they do not glorify him as God or thank him. On the contrary, they have become futile in their thinking; and their undiscerning hearts have become darkened. Claiming to be wise, they have become fools! In fact, they have exchanged the glory of the immortal God for mere images, like a mortal human being, or like birds, animals or reptiles! (Rom 2:20b–22)

Paul is pointing out the inevitable decline into idolatry that overtakes people who have lost the capacity to wonder. We turn from wonder to being preoccupied with managing and accumulating the stuff of life, like the rich fool in Yeshua’s parable whose life is all about building barns and bigger barns, “who stores up wealth for himself without being rich toward God” (Luke 12:21).  

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel of blessed memory rightly insists, “The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living.” Without wonder, our lives inevitably become self-referential. Sooner or later, without wonder, they become piles of moldering stuff. Albert Einstein got it right when he said, “He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.”

How, then, may we open our eyes, making more room in our lives for wonder, and for God? Yeshua provides the key to his disciples after describing the folly of the rich fool. He says this:  

Don’t worry about your life—what you will eat or drink; or about your body—what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing. Think about the ravens! They neither plant nor harvest, they have neither storerooms nor barns, yet God feeds them. You are worth much more than the birds! Can any of you by worrying add an hour to his life? If you can’t do a little thing like that, why worry about the rest? Think about the wild irises, and how they grow. They neither work nor spin thread; yet, I tell you, not even Shlomo in all his glory was clothed as beautifully as one of these. (Luke 12:22–28)

The key is to pause to contemplate the glories of God’s creation, whether like Abraham considering the stars in the vaulted heavens, or by pausing to consider the details of nature, the beauties of music, the effulgent richness of the created order.  

When I was a little child, my Aunt Angela used to take me by cab to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, where she would marvel at the delicate beauty of flowers. She was a woman who never lost her capacity for wonder. Have we? If so, then let’s follow Yeshua’s counsel and that of the Psalmist. Consider the lilies of the field and the moon and stars that God has created. Look around you at the handiwork of God. Pause to wonder. Worship him.

"No, You Can’t Have Those Chick-fil-A Nuggets"

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

Gabriella Kaplan

Ninth-grader Gabi Kaplan of Austin, Texas, is a virtual member of Ruach Israel, Needham, MA.

Kashrut or keeping kosher is something that can be observed at many different levels and in a variety of ways. Throughout the Jewish community, including the Messianic Jewish movement, there are a variety of ways that Jews observe kashrut–from simply avoiding forbidden foods, like shrimp or pork, to keeping a kosher kitchen and separating milk and meat. Growing up, I haven’t really known anything else than keeping kosher in a fairly strict way. We use two different sets of dishes (one for meat and one for dairy), only buy foods with kosher hechshers on them, and eat vegetarian at restaurants. As a teenager, it can be hard to stay committed while fighting societal pressures to break kashrut and grappling with the fear that not everyone will be receptive to my dietary restrictions, especially in Texas, where I live. 

What is Kashrut and where did it come from?

According to the Encyclopedia Judaica, under Dietary Laws, Kashrut is “the collective term for the Jewish laws and customs pertaining to the types of food permitted for consumption and their preparation.” Kashrut has its origins in the Bible, and this week’s Torah portion lays out the basic rules and regulations for keeping kosher. In that chapter, God tells Moses and Aaron to “speak to the children of Israel, saying: These are the living things which you may eat among all the animals that are on the earth” (Lev 11:1-2).

Keeping Kosher as an American teenager

In fifth grade, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party. As with any other fifth grade party, there was bound to be pizza. Knowing that I kept kosher, the parents of the child asked if I ate cheese pizza, and I told them I did. The day of the party came, and all the parents had ordered was pepperoni pizza. I was so confused. The parents came up to me and asked me if I could just pick off the pepperoni. I know they meant well, but that was the very beginning of questioning how keeping kosher played into my Jewish identity and what challenges it would bring in life when socializing. 

Variations of the pizza story happen all the time, not just to me but to most people who keep kosher. In Texas, barbeque culture is huge, and if you don’t own a grill or eat meat, everywhere you go, you risk the chance of being socially ostracized solely because you can’t eat the meat they are serving you. When you are invited over to someone's house, it can be extremely hard to tell them that you keep kosher because it feels like you are putting too much pressure on them to buy kosher meat, or make something vegetarian (God forbid!), when in reality non-kosher meat (especially pork in Texas) is a huge part of everyone's lives.

Another big thing in Texas (and the South) is Chick-fil-A. It seems that most people eat it multiple times a week and have no idea what to do when Chick-fil-A is closed on Sundays. When I tell people I have never eaten a Chick-fil-A nugget or chicken sandwich, because it is non-kosher chicken (I have had their fries, and they definitely live up to the hype), they are shocked. In our culture, I find such a disconnect from the people with dietary restrictions and the people without. People who don't have dietary restrictions (not just kosher, but also dairy free, gluten free, etc.), in my opinion, don't quite understand people with dietary restrictions.  

Why do I choose to keep kosher? What does Scripture say?

Personally, I keep kosher not just because I grew up that way but also because I know it is what God says to do, and I feel more connected to him when I do. One of the last verses in Leviticus 11 is “For I am Adonai your God. Therefore, sanctify yourselves, and be holy, for I am holy” (v. 44). In this context, holiness is something that can be achieved by keeping kashrut, and as the Lord is holy, we can find that same holiness in ourselves. 

The Italian-Jewish commentator Ovadiah Sforno paraphrases this verse: “It is no more than appropriate that you do all this to attain this level of holiness in order to carry out my will; for indeed when I took you out of Egypt this was expressly in order for you to achieve this spiritual level and for me to be your God, a God to whom you could relate directly without any intermediary.” Sforno points out that by following what God says, specifically regarding kashrut, we can grow closer to him and cultivate a relationship with him. 

Why do I think it's a good thing for Messianic Jews to keep kosher?

There are many things that can bring us closer to God: praying, worshiping, and following his commandments such as kashrut. As you have read in Leviticus 11, God wants us to keep kosher in order to grow closer to him and live a holy lifestyle. One other main reason I think we should keep kosher is to relate to the broader Jewish community. If we want to identify with the non-Messianic Jewish community and be hospitable to more religious Jews, who only eat in kosher kitchens, we ourselves should keep kosher, not just to show them that we are a part of the Jewish community but to show them that we care about cultivating our relationship with the Lord. 

Societal pressures and dealing with harder conversations about kashrut as a teenager (and at any age) can be stressful and hard to navigate, but in the end it is all worth it. Bringing yourself closer to God and the rest of the community can be beneficial in the long run, and it is a great way to start cultivating a healthier, holier, and long-lasting relationship with the Lord. 

Esther, Seriously

Purim 5782

Dr. Patrice Fischer, Congregation Ohr Chadash, Clearwater, FL

Let’s face it, for modern Jews, Purim is the “funnest” holiday of the Jewish year.

Hamantaschen (Haman’s pockets) are delicious. Even their name is funny.

Purim Plays have the whole family guffawing. Children, who spend half their waking lives listening to authority figures tell them to be quiet, are encouraged to shake their groggers and yell out loud right in the middle of a public presentation, “YAY!” and “BOO!” (at the appropriate times, of course).

The Rabbis encourage adults to get so tipsy that they shouldn’t be able to tell the statements “Hooray for Mordechai!” and “Down with Haman!” apart.

They also say that men should feel free to dress up as women, and the women can dress as men. A topsy-turvy, inside-out world is so much fun for us nowadays, isn’t it?

Such a fun holiday!

There is definitely enjoyment to be had at a good Purim party, but perhaps not at the expense of the seriousness of the story. Unless people nowadays understand the bravery of Mordechai and Esther within their own times, the silly skit may be all they take away from the book of Esther.

 Esther is a true hero, both for ancient times, and for us today. And yet well-meaning modern interpreters make fun of her problems, and may even try to shame her for her actions—or what they perceive as her lack of actions. Let’s briefly go over some of their spurious charges.

 1)      “She hid her Jewish identity.”

 Indeed she did; the text tells us so several times. However, the text also says, “She did this since Mordechai told her to, and she continued to follow Mordechai’s instructions as she had done when he was bringing her up” (Est 2:20). Esther was an obedient child who was brought up as a faithful Jew and continued on as an obedient young woman.

2)      “She ate unclean (non-kosher) food.”

The Biblical text in Daniel makes a special point to show Daniel was keeping kosher while being forcibly kept in Babylon, but we see nothing in the text about Esther’s eating habits. Therefore, should we assume she followed the Persians’ ways? It’s interesting that there is a whole midrash about Esther also eating only fruit and vegetables. By the way, the Apocryphal version of Esther (written in Greek as part of the Septuagint) says that “she avoided drinking forbidden wine and eating forbidden foods.”

3)       “She married a gentile.”

This is a major plot point in the story. However, this may be a problem more for modern and/or non-Jewish readers, since the text is clear on how this should be interpreted. She was taken (2:8-9) by the king’s guards (i.e., she was rounded up with other women like they were a herd of cattle). She had no choice in the matter. (Heb: taken=laqach: The same verb as what happens to Sarai in Gen 12:15). To deny the king’s will meant imprisonment and/or death (see earlier: Vashti). To please the king puts you in rarefied territory indeed. She is a prisoner, subject to the whims of the king.

•  A note about life in a harem

The term “prisoner” here is not an exaggeration. When a woman is taken for the king, she is in the harem for life. She placed under the supervision of a harem administrator (in Est 2:3 it is the king’s eunuch, Hegai) and a trusted group of older harem women. She is never allowed to leave the palace grounds, except, perhaps, after menopause.

She cannot talk to any people outside the harem. Any males above the age of ~12 in direct contact with the harem women are required to be eunuchs: servants, messengers, tradespeople.

 A woman does not choose to be in a harem. She is taken by soldiers and put into the harem if and when the king says so. The governors of the various Persian satrapies were ordered to bring “all the beautiful virgins into the harem at Susa and then they will all be given beauty treatments” (Est 2:4) for months at a time. The king will have sex with any or all of them. No marriage is necessary because he is the king. If or when the king will ever set eyes on a particular woman again is totally up to his tastes.

Any children the king and these women may have are taken from the mothers at birth and raised with the other children of the king. The sons will be trained for military/ambassadorial work, and the daughters will be sold as brides to eligible men inside and outside of the kingdom.

When Esther was kidnapped and taken to the harem, any part of the Jewish community that would have been part of her growing-up years was thereafter cut out of her life. She is alone in a hostile environment with her secret Jewish identity that might be revealed at any moment. She is forced to undergo beauty regimes and taught exactly how to physically please the king over the course of many years. She has no one speaking to the king on her behalf. Other women in the harem might have male relatives who speak to the king regularly (and drink with him at numerous banquets and parties he held—see especially Est 1). She, however, is alone in a bastion of male power and wealth. Fear for her life is central in her considerations about what she should and should not do.

 4)       “She was able to leave the old impoverished Jewish life behind, but now her past has caught up to her, now she is being asked to own the identity she worked so hard to escape…”

In this charge against Esther, she is portrayed as someone who wanted to get away from her Jewishness so she could lounge around the palace and enjoy its pampering and luxury. There is no indication whatsoever that Esther is trying to escape her Jewishness. It’s a cynical assertion to put a negative spin on her experience and is not found at all in the text. She is not someone who “shut herself up in her palace and hopes that the storm passes her by.” She is in a place and position that she did not choose at any point.

Contrast this cynical take on Esther with what we can read in the text: She’s described as “greatly agitated” (4:4) about Mordechai’s extensive time publicly wearing sackcloth. Once Esther is informed of the death sentence for her people, plus Mordechai’s further encouragement to intervene with the king, she immediately steps up her commitment to the Jewish community by announcing her plan to go to the king (after telling Mordechai to inform the whole Jewish community of her intentions). She is not overstating her case to Mordechai when she says, “I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I die, I die” (Est 4:15).

5)      “God is not mentioned in the whole book. Therefore, this story is just a glorified fairy tale.”

Should we consider it wrong, or faulty, or blameworthy, that the book does not overtly name the name of God? If so, that would be the “fault” of the actual writer, not of its main characters. But in fact, the name of God is easily discernable in Esther in several ways, if you know some keys to the code in which this book is written. Just as Esther’s Jewish identity is hidden until the correct point in the story, God is also hidden in the story until he acts. It’s brilliant writing. It’s not something to be ashamed of.

Purim is definitely a good time for celebration. We should eat, drink, laugh, and enjoy the holiday fully. However, we should also appreciate the true story that we read in the Tanakh of the adventures of Esther and her adoptive father, Mordechai. We should appreciate and thank God for his working behind the scenes, which allowed the Jewish people to be saved at a time when their total destruction was all planned out. God gave Esther and Mordechai important qualities: wisdom, obedience, discernment, bravery, and quick-thinking, among others. These qualities were used by our heroes to save their people. There is no higher calling.

Let’s not assume that Esther had a difficult decision concerning losing her position as queen and risking her life, just because she was newly wealthy and there were unlimited beauty products available. This kind of dismissive attitude is incredibly disrespectful to a great hero of our faith. Esther’s willingness to risk her own death in order to save the Jewish community in Persia shows her as following this higher calling by doing her duty in special obedience to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

Illustration: Crown Princess Elia – Albanian Royal Family

Let Us Draw Near

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-6:7

David Nichol, Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

The entire system of sacrifices in Leviticus is about nearness to God. This is evident in the opening verses of our parasha, Vayikra. The Hebrew root ק-ר-ב is the root of both “brings near” (yakriv) and “offering” (korban). The phrase “presents an offering” (yakriv korban) has a poetic repetition better captured in Everett Fox’s translation, “brings near a near-offering.”

The opening word, Vayikra, “He called,” also connotes invitation and intimacy. Jewish commentators point out that this personal invitation to Moses comes immediately after the end of Exodus, where the cloud of Hashem’s presence so fills the Temple that Moses cannot enter (Exod 40:35)! As R. Aviva Richman points out, being prevented from entering the Mishkan must have been a blow to Moses, making the personal invitation of Vayikra that much sweeter.

The traditional view of the korbanot, or sacrifices, is that, bereft of a Temple in which to offer them, we are in a state of long-term galut, or exile. Even when we have a Jewish nation in the land of Israel, our inability to resume the sacrifices leaves us separated from God, unable to draw close, and in a state of unending ritual impurity.

Certainly this is true on some level. Without the Temple our people are scattered and fractured, and ways that people draw close to the Creator proliferate beyond number. On the other hand, the besorah of Yeshua implies that the situation is not so bleak:

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, TLV)

The model of the korbanot is one where we participate as partners with God in maintaining the relationship. Our parasha starts with God calling to Moses, but it immediately follows with “when anyone of you brings an offering to Adonai” (v. 2). You may have noticed that many of the details of the building of the Mishkan appear twice: once when God commands and another time when Moses (or the artisans) actually do the work. Accordingly, the author of Hebrews does not stop at what Yeshua does as Kohen Gadol (High Priest) for us, but continues with the same theme as our parasha: “So let us draw near.”

But in this time of galut, when even our flawed status quo is shaken and the structures and systems we (mistakenly?) relied upon are showing their weakness, what do we do? How do we draw near?

Prayer: continuing the sacrifices

When the Temple was destroyed our sages first turned to prayer as a way to draw near. Regular prayer times were already in place before the Temple’s destruction (e.g. Acts 3:1), so it was a small step to establish the three daily services, shacharit, mincha, and maariv, based on the sacrificial schedule.

There is a natural tendency to turn prayer into something that serves our needs, rather than bringing it as a gift. This tendency to be a taker instead of a giver is a temptation in any relationship—and usually a destructive one. Once prayer becomes truly a relational act that contains both giving and receiving, it will draw us nearer to our Creator. As it says, “Adonai is near (karov) to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth” (Psa 145:18).

Shabbat: build the Mishkan in time

R. Abraham Joshua Heschel famously described the Shabbat as “a sanctuary in time” (The Sabbath, p. 29). While Moses and Aaron, Betzalel and Oholiav built the Mishkan in the desert with various types of labor, we all build this sanctuary each week by desisting from those same types of labor.

It is not a rest for our health (though it may be healthy!), as much as a boundary like that around the Mishkan that Moses set up before the presence of Hashem filled it (Ex. 40:33). We create a space for holiness by distinguishing the day, putting boundaries around it.

When we have guests stay over, I need to move my computers, guitars, and assorted books from the guest room so they have a comfortable place to stay. So we make room for God’s presence on Shabbat, and allow his presence to draw near.

Kehilah: let’s do it together

Without Kehilat Israel, the congregation of Israel, the Mishkan is never built. Note that when God commands Moses, “Have them make a Sanctuary for me,” it is not “so that I may dwell in it,” but rather, “so that I may dwell among them” (Ex. 25:8, emphasis added). Each Israelite having a shrine in their own tent doesn’t work; the building must be done together.

In this modern life it’s easy (or at least easier) to forget that we are social animals, built to be deeply interdependent on one another. Much of Western thought considers a human as a free-floating individual, but that is its great flaw: human life is defined by relationships. Anything meaningful we do will be shaped and enabled by the communities we live in, whatever shape that may take.

Kehilah, community, also gives us endless opportunities to love others. As R. Jonathan Sacks reminded us, sacrifice is best understood as an expression of love. Yeshua’s sacrifice demonstrates the depth of God’s love for us; his teaching makes it clear that loving God and loving your neighbor are not simply the most important commandments, they are interdependent, mutually reinforcing. What, then, could be more important than living lives of sacrifice, love, and mutual commitment?

Mussar: work out your salvation with fear and trembling

R. Yisrael Salanter compared mussar study, study of the classic Jewish texts on inner change and ethics, with the mincha offering (Ohr Yisrael, Letter 12; see Lev 2). Why does this comparison make sense?

R. Salanter saw that religious life was deeply compromised if it was purely external. Today most religious leaders treat as axiomatic that character matters, but few of us have truly mastered the disciplines that develop character. The issues, individual and societal, that motivated R. Salanter to innovate practices of mussar still persist. As a result, many times our communities must rely on new members who have not had the time and mentorship to develop into healthy contributors. The mussar tradition provides tools for the renovation of our inner selves, strengthening our families and communities, drawing us all nearer each other, and to God.

In the end it’s not overly complicated, but neither is it easy. The service of the Mishkan is not tangential, but is fundamental to our spiritual life together. R. Eliezer Melamed sums it up beautifully:

Even though there is a big difference in status between the Mishkan and the rest of the world, in reality the whole world is meant to be a Mishkan, that is, a place where the Shekhina (Divine Presence) can dwell. Consequently, all of man’s labor must be connected to the crafting of the Mishkan… Therefore one must orient all his actions toward the greater glory of God—in the field or in the factory, while engaged in scientific research or in business, all in order to improve the world and perfect it, until it reaches its ultimate purpose of being a Mishkan for the Shekhina. (Peninei Halakha: Laws of Shabbat, vol. 1).

So even without the sacrifices, the scope of our participation has not shrunk, but grown! This is the meaning of Hebrews inviting us to enter—in boldness!—the very place we were once kept from, the Most Holy Place. Further, while the original Mishkan was built once and then completed, we can participate in its building and rebuilding every day: living lives of prayer, Shabbat, and mitzvot as people of humility, faith and character. Thus may we draw near to God that God may, in mercy, draw near to us.

The Trail Map of Torah

Parashat Pekudei,  Exodus 38:21–40:38

Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah, Loveland, OH, guest contributor

I am an avid hiker. I like nothing better than to be “out there,” surrounded by the splendor of the natural world. And I am old-fashioned enough to love maps. Real maps. The kind you can hold in your hands, then fold up and put in your pocket. I love maps because I like to know where I am in the big picture of things. Tracing where I’ve been, the trails I’ve taken, then locating my present position, is the only way I know to navigate the road ahead. This is a good life practice for individuals, as well as for communities. 

As a Jewish community, we are greatly blessed to have ancestors that saw value in recording their physical and spiritual journeys. This is our unique history, our legacy: the historical map of a very real journey with many miracles, sins, and trials, but also replete with ordinary tasks, accomplished with detailed record-keeping.  

In Parashat Pekudei we come to the end of the book of Exodus. We are about to embark on our next journey through the book of Leviticus where there are many narrow passages to navigate, and not as many far-ranging vistas as in parts of Exodus or Deuteronomy. But before we move on, let’s check the map and take a quick look back at the trails we’ve recently trekked. 

The book of Exodus, in my view, can be understood in three parts.  

• In the first part, Chapters 1–15, God, through Moses and Aaron, as well as by great signs and wonders, brings the family of Jacob, the family he particularly loves, out of bondage in Egypt to fulfill his promises to the fathers.

• In the second part, Chapters 16–24, the children of Jacob become the nation of Israel. They arrive at the wilderness of Sinai, in view of the Mountain of God. Here, in Midbar Sinai, Israel receives and accepts their holy covenant with God; God cuts covenant with the Jewish nation. Through this blood offering, sprinkled on the people, God anchors his own Holy Name to the earth, by eternally joining his Name to a people of flesh. Henceforth, the God of all creation calls himself the God of Israel.

• The third part, Chapters 25–40, focuses on the plans for, and then the building of, God’s Dwelling Place, the Mishkan (tabernacle or tent). Moses receives the plans on the mountain, then, starting in chapter 35, the people begin to build it.

The Campsite

We are now, still, camped at Midbar Sinai, the broad scruffy land at the foot of the Mountain of God. It’s been a year since we left Egypt (see 40:17). In Pekudei, we have the wonderful privilege of seeing the completion of all of the many specified parts needed for the Mishkan, and then, at the very end, its final construction. 

But here we must pause. The immense star-packed sky above is heavy with hints of a wondrous plan beyond our ken. We must wonder then, why is this peculiar task, the building of the Mishkan, the central preparatory task of our people’s journey? There is not space here to explore this pivotal question. But its centrality in our inherited trail map is certainly related to the fact that this precisely designed tent is called the Dwelling Place (mishkan in Hebrew) of God in the midst of Israel. 

A useful map is not Abstract Expressionist. 

The design of the Mishkan’s structural parts and furnishings was anything but spontaneous or random. The gifted artisans chosen by the Lord to oversee this project had not heard of Abstract Expressionism, much less Jackson Pollock! Everything was done, start to finish, in a structured and orderly way, always prioritizing, and based directly on, the vision on the mountain. 

Let’s look at God’s way of completing this project. God is the Master Architect. But, in fact, he is designing his own house! So he has at least two reasons to desire it to be finished according to his specs. Many of these principles can be applied to how we order our congregations. 

It starts with a vision.

God commands Moses to come up to the mountain. There he is shown what I believe is a view of the heavenly temple, the heavenly city, God’s realm. The people are to make God’s earthly tent “according to all [the pattern] that I show you.” (25:9) This is a detailed pattern. The vision for the plan takes all of chapters 25 through 31.

The vision needs a visionary.

The vision is from God, but it is not given directly to the people. The people do not determine the vision by comparing prophetic dreams, nor by a vote. The vision is given to Moses, a man tried and tested by God. He is, like our Messiah, “a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief.” He is utterly faithful.

The visionary communicates the general vision to the people.

Moses gathers the whole congregation of Israel and tells them what the Lord has commanded. But he speaks in general terms, not in detail. He concentrates on the first thing God spoke to him: the people should bring freewill offerings of the various materials needed. He then tells them that gifted artisans will be in charge of the construction. (35:10–19)

The visionary communicates the detailed vision to the leaders.

This is a serious responsibility. It takes patience and communication skills. It has to be palpably clear, yet allow for a degree of artistic creativity in those called to bring it to fruition. Moses tells all the people that Bezalel and Aholiab are the project’s Executive Designers: Master Artisans called by God (Exod 35:30–36:3).

The artisan leaders oversee the work.

These Master Designers appoint other gifted craftsmen (and women) to jobs that suit their skills. They continue to oversee all of the work. In this section, when we read “he” it usually refers to Bezalel, not to Moses (36:1–39:31).

The executive designer brings the finished work to the visionary.

The artisans did everything they could to have all of the specified items made according to spec. But, in the last step, Bezalel brings all of the pieces to Moses for inspection before assembling them. There was still time to correct something, if needed (39:32–41).

Moses inspects all the work according to the vision.

This must have been a tense period for all of the artisans. They had worked so hard. They had done their best to artistically express the vision Moses had communicated. They had put their whole hearts into the work. Yet, they submit it all to the one whom God had called to carry the vision. After, perhaps, a couple hours of inspection, Moses confirms they had done well! He blesses them! We can imagine that there were many sighs of relief and much rejoicing (39:42–43).

Moses personally oversees the construction.

Moses, in his priestly role, oversees the construction of all of the parts. Now, when we see “He,” it refers to Moses. I doubt Moses did all of the heavy lifting, but he did do all of the priestly tasks himself, including anointing the Mishkan and all its furnishings with the holy anointing oil, and placing the holy garments on Aaron and his sons, and anointing them. He most likely also personally placed the “testimony” into the ark and placed the kaporet (often translated “mercy seat”) on the ark. I imagine he closely supervised those who carried the ark into the tent (40:1–33).

God brings his Presence.

One of the most famous phrases in Torah is v-y’chal Moshe: Moses finished.

And he raised up the court all around the tabernacle and the altar, and hung up the screen of the court gate. So Moses finished the work. (40:33)

Then the glory of the LORD filled the tent. . . . Whenever the cloud was taken up from above the tabernacle, the children of Israel would go onward in all their journeys. (40:34–38)

The journeying of the Israelites was determined, from here on, by the cloud of Hashem. It is not clear whether the cloud showed them the route, or just the timing of breaking camp. In any case, Moses was still the one in charge of both the spiritual map and the trail map. Moses stands unique as a leader of the people. It is clear why Messiah is called a “prophet like Moses.”

Moses and our Fathers left us detailed, notated maps of their journeys so that we would remember. “Remember!” is one of the most often-uttered commands in Torah. But remembering is just the first step. We are to study these strange trails—to know them intimately, to the extent that we come to feel that we ourselves have taken these trails.

But the maps we have inherited do not only show us the past. As we study and envision ourselves on the long trail of Torah, we begin to understand more clearly the paths we should take into our future. 

From Head Counting to Healthy Community

Parashat Shekalim, Exodus 30:11–16

Rabbi Russ Resnik

Leaders like to count heads. The US government has conducted a census every ten years since 1790, based on Article I, Section 2 of the Constitution, and even the theocracy established in Israel ages earlier required a census. The Torah’s guidelines for this census are surprisingly relevant to creating healthy communities today.

In Exodus 30:11–16, Hashem instructs Moses to take a count of the tribes of Israel. We read these instructions each year on Shabbat Shekalim, the first of four special Shabbats leading up to Passover, as the Jewish Study Bible explains:

In Second Temple times [these instructions] became the basis of an annual impost for maintaining the Temple. . . . Since the payment was due in the month of Adar (early spring), in order to announce it the present law, called “the Section concerning Shekels” (Parashat Shekalim), was added to the weekly Torah reading on the Sabbath of, or preceding, the New Moon of Adar (m. Meg. 3.4), and the Sabbath is called “the Sabbath of Shekels” (Shabbat Shekalim).   

We’ve kept the custom of reading Parashat Shekalim for over nineteen centuries, to remember the half-shekel ransom paid at this season every year since the destruction of the Temple. The Temple is gone, the priesthood scattered, but we maintain this tradition, which helps maintain us as a people, a living community. As we follow these readings in the micro-community of Messianic Judaism, we express our solidarity with the macro-community of Israel through the ages.  

The instructions in Parashat Shekalim open with this:  

And the Lord spoke to Moses, “When you count heads for the Israelites according to their numbers, every man shall give ransom for his life to the Lord when they are counted, that there be no scourge among them when they are counted.” (Exod 30:11–12)

Counting heads, apparently, is a perilous business. When you take a census, each person has to give a ransom (or atonement, kopher) for his life. Why is this? Throughout the ancient Near East, a fear of exposure to malevolent forces was connected to counting people, and this might be in the background here. Counting implies ownership, which can stir up jealousy and mischief in the demonic realm. Before we write this off as superstition, we need to recognize the reality of an unseen realm in which spiritual forces are at work, for ill as well as good. And there’s another substantial truth here. Counting implies ownership, which risks making persons into objects, into quantities instead of souls of infinite value.  

On one level, then, paying the ransom avoids directly counting people, so that we total the weight of silver (shekel is originally not a coin but a measure of weight), not the actual number of human beings. “This practice survives in a Jewish custom for determining whether a prayer quorum (‘minyan’) of ten is present: ten words of a biblical verse, rather than numbers, are applied to those being counted” (Jewish Study Bible).

But why a ransom or atonement exactly? Because every person belongs to Hashem, but the one who counts might think they belong to him. This may be the background to the story of David’s disastrous census in 2 Samuel 24. When humans take count of Israel, they are required to pay a ransom (kopher) to signify that each person actually belongs to the Lord.

This custom strikes me as an essential key to healthy community and to healthy family as well—the first key of four I’ll outline. 

1.     The community (or family) needs human leaders, but it belongs to God.

When we’re introduced to a new congregation, one of the first questions we’re liable to ask is how many members it has. We want to quantify it, and that’s not altogether irrelevant, but we need to guard against quantifying people, turning them into objects to be tallied up as if they belonged to us. And those of us in leadership, as much as we love and devote ourselves to the congregation, need to remember who it really belongs to.

As we continue through the instructions of Shekalim, we learn a second key to healthy community. 

2.     Every member has something essential to contribute. 

“This shall each who undergoes the count give: half a shekel by the shekel of the sanctuary—twenty gerahs to the shekel, a donation to the Lord. Whosoever undergoes the count from twenty years old and up shall give the Lord’s donation.” (Exod 30:13–14)

Every person brings a “donation” or terumah, with the word repeated three times in verses 13, 14, and 15. When the idea of terumah was introduced earlier, in Parashat Terumah, it was defined as a freewill offering, from the heart, not a tax or fee, but a matter of lifting up to God, as its name implies (Exod 25:2).

Each member has something essential to contribute to the community. And yet, paradoxically, the donation is the same amount for every person.  

“The rich man shall not give more and the poor man shall not give less than a half a shekel [when they give a terumah to the Lord] to atone for their lives.” (Exod 30:15)

This is our third key to healthy community. 

3.     The same inherent value applies to every single member.

The same honor and respect are due to each member. Each one bears the divine image, and answers to the same Shepherd, regardless of socio-economic or religious status, and regardless of how much or how little they appear to contribute. And this leads to our fourth key. 

4.     The community is sustained by the gifts of all its members. 

“And you shall take the atonement money from the Israelites and set it for the service of the Tent of Meeting, and it shall be a remembrance for the Israelites before the Lord to atone for their lives.” (Exod 30:16)

The offerings are not one-time gifts, but gifts that enable the ongoing service of the holy place, demonstrating that healthy community requires the steady contribution of each member. No one is a spectator or a consumer in the house of Hashem, and this full-bodied contribution is a “remembrance” for every member “before the Lord.” It provides atonement, keeping each member close to him.  

■

Rav Shaul applies these principles to the Messianic community:  

Speaking the truth in love, we will in every respect grow up into him who is the head, the Messiah. Under his control, the whole body is being fitted and held together by the support of every joint, with each part working to fulfill its function; this is how the body grows and builds itself up in love. (Eph 4:15–16 CJB)

Not only does “each part” have an essential function, but the whole community belongs to Messiah as a body belongs to its head. In the Tabernacle community of Exodus, the gifts of each member constitute a “remembrance before the Lord.” In Messiah these gifts also constitute the very growth and building up of his body. Healthy community isn’t just a collection of countable heads, but a living remembrance of the Messiah who gives it life.

Citations of Exodus are from Robert Alter, The Five Books of Moses.

Illustration: cubiclebydesign.com. 

Who Doesn’t Like a Nice Sandwich?

Parashat Ki Tissa, Exodus 30:11–34:35

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Sonny, true love is the greatest thing in the world. Except for a nice MLT, a mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. They're so perky, I love that. —Miracle Max

As Miracle Max declares, there’s nothing better than true love, except perhaps a great sandwich. Perhaps, though, a sandwich can be true love, and true love a sandwich. Let me explain.

Whenever I have something meaty to explain to someone, I always try to deliver what I call a sandwich, interspersing it with the bread of affirmation and compassion. I also love it when I receive a sandwich, like when my wife (hypothetically) says, “I appreciate you taking initiative with the mess in the kitchen. Next time, make sure you check underneath the big pan to wash off all the soap. Thanks for doing the dishes.” My wife is from New Jersey, though, where they just tend to tell it like it is, so sometimes I’m fortunate to get even an open-faced sandwich in this completely hypothetical situation, but hey, it’s something. I know not everyone needs or appreciates a nice verbal sandwich, but for me, it’s my love language; it’s like a verbal hug of affirmation and encouragement.

This week’s parasha, Ki Tissa, contains the episode where Aaron gives in to the people’s grumbling and impatience and forms a golden calf for Israel to worship. Admittedly, this is bad. The sages traditionally connect the covenant at Sinai to a marriage between God and Israel, with the Torah being the ketubah. In this analogy, what happens here is akin to cheating on your spouse on the wedding night. Some sages also paint this story as analogous to the rebellion in the garden when Adam and Eve ate the fruit and brought sin, death, and chaos into God’s good world. The 1st century Jewish historian Josephus, when he tells the Sinai story, leaves this part out, perhaps for fear of antisemitism.

But look at the surrounding narrative context of this; it’s a giant tabernacle sandwich! Before this incident, you have page after page of instructions for the tent of meeting, and after this episode, page after page of the actual construction. The first grand gesture of God dwelling in Israel surrounds this debacle, like a giant hug of affirmation.

There are also links to the sandwich-esque love of God in the story itself. Aaron appeases the people’s impatience by saying this: “Have your wives, sons, and daughters strip off their gold earrings; and bring them to me” (Exodus 32:2). These same words for “gold” and “earrings” (zahav and nezem) are are used in next week’s parasha for the offering to build the tabernacle:

Then the whole Israelite community withdrew from Moses’ presence, and everyone who was willing and whose heart moved them came and brought an offering to the Lord for the work on the tent of meeting, for all its service, and for the sacred garments. All who were willing, men and women alike, came and brought gold jewelry of all kinds: brooches, earrings, rings and ornaments. (Exodus 35:20-22, NIV, emphasis mine)

In this case, we see the redemptive opposite of the golden calf blunder: folks contributing from the same gold earrings to build a tabernacle so that God can dwell among Israel, with his people. Instead of melting them to build an idol, they are melting them to build the vehicle for God’s presence among and within them. The same word for gold and a similar Hebrew word for ring are used later in the actual instruction and construction for the tabernacle, for the curtains to be held together; this, too, is a callback to the golden calf in a restorative way. So, the very thing that was used for idolatry is now used to draw them near to God.

Furthermore, the presence of the tabernacle sandwich indicates that God’s response to our rebellion is actually the opposite of what we expect and deserve: when we fail, God draws near. When the first humans eat the forbidden fruit, God responds by pursuing them, asking Adam “Where are you?” and covering them up with animal skins.

The Scriptures surrounding this week’s parasha are composed in this way: 1) Plans for God to dwell among Israel, 2) golden calf, 3) God directs Moses and Israel to actually follow those plans and get to building. God’s response to the golden calf, to our failures, is to draw near. This sandwich invites us to reframe our mistakes in light of his continued pursuit of us, in light of our irrevocable value and calling, and in light of his unimaginable love and grace.

Remember the picture of the wedding between Israel and God with the Torah as a ketubah? There’s another way to frame the story in this week’s parasha of Moses destroying the first tablets after finding out what they’ve done. A midrash about this sheds light on what may be going on here—perhaps more than mere frustration.

When the Israelites committed the sin of the Golden Calf, God sat in judgment to condemn them, as Deuteronomy 9:14 says, "Let Me alone, that I may destroy them," but God had not yet condemned them. So Moses took the Tablets from God to appease God's wrath. The Midrash compared the act of Moses to that of a king's marriage-broker. The king sent the broker to secure a wife for the king, but while the broker was on the road, the woman corrupted herself with another man. The broker (who was entirely innocent) took the marriage document that the king had given the broker to seal the marriage and tore it, reasoning that it would be better for the woman to be judged as an unmarried woman than as a wife. (Exodus Rabbah 43:1)

In other words, we can view Moses destroying the tablets (like tearing up the marriage document) as an act of mercy; Moses intercedes so that Israel can be judged less harshly.

We can reframe even our worst mistakes in light of the love of Hashem; that is what the Scriptures do, and that is what Yeshua the Messiah mediates for us. We (and Israel) are defined not by our mistakes, but by God’s faithfulness to us. We are given a sandwich of the mobile presence of God around the golden calf story. Like the gold earrings, our weaknesses and mistakes are opportunities for redemption, learning, and growth. Why not see them the way Hashem does? Not only can we extend this grace to our own stories, but also to others and their narratives.

If God’s response to our mistakes is to draw near, then shouldn’t we imitate him? Let’s be sandwich makers for others. After all, we are made in his image, and let’s be honest: who doesn’t like a nice sandwich?

We Need an Advocate

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20–30:10

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

Early in this week’s parasha we are introduced to the new and exotic station given to Aaron and his sons—the role and office of the Kohanim (priests). They would become the highest religious authorities in the Torah, providing a stable presence as officiants, healers, and intercessors. Through the elaborate practices of sacrifice, offerings, and ritual purity, the Kohen Gadol (the High Priest) and his associates would provide Israel with the comfort of Hashem’s renewed love as well as a reminder of his awesome presence. On a daily basis they would help to exemplify the dynamic tension between Ahavat Hashem (the love of God) and Yirat Hashem (the appropriate fear of God). They would call B’nei Yisrael back to a renewed commitment to Torah.

This week’s parasha elaborates on the dazzling apparel of the Kohanim and especially Aaron the Kohen Gadol. The Torah speaks of his tunic, ephod, precious stones, crown, and choshen (breastplate). The choshen was adorned with three rows of four stones each. On each stone was inscribed the name of one of Israel’s twelve tribes. According to the Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 38), the Kohen Gadol would wear the stones so that when he entered the Holy of Holies Hashem would be mindful of the merits of the tribes of Israel.

So not only were the Kohanim to remind the people of Israel of Hashem, but part of their function was to remind Hashem of the people as well. They stood as symbolic exemplars of the Jewish people’s striving for holiness and justice through a life and regimen of sacred deeds. Through the ritual of sacrifice, they would plead on the people’s behalf, acting as their advocate so that Hashem might not remove his Holy Presence.

Why then, in response to Messianic claims about the mediating role of the Messiah, does one often hear some Jewish people remark, “We Jews believe that we can come directly to God, we have no need for an advocate”? This sort of statement portrays the difference between the two belief systems of Messianic and mainstream Judaism as a controversy over the possibility of obtaining unmediated access to God. Is this an accurate representation? Historically it is, in part, but only if we ignore the greater weight of Torah and accept but one particular view of Judaism.

After the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 the priestly system of mediation ceased. Judaism at that time was a broad landscape that included the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essences, the Qumran community, and among others the followers of Yeshua. Each of these groups had to ask themselves how the Jewish people were to survive without the priestly system that was essential to Judaism and prominent through most of the Torah. The early Messianic Jews understood Yeshua as the embodiment of the Kohen Gadol and the ultimate mediator. The rabbinic form of Judaism that attained ascendancy in the post-Temple era saw Israel communally as the mediator, and therefore deemphasized the need for individual mediators, even to the point of guarding against the glorification of Moses. This is reflected in the absence of references to Moses in the Passover Haggadah, and the dearth of such references in the Siddur. To this extent, the common view of Judaism’s attitude toward mediation is somewhat justified.

On a deeper level, however, this view falls far short. While the role of individual mediators is downplayed in most iterations of Rabbinic Judaism, and while the priestly vocation no longer exists as a collective representative of God to Israel and Israel to God, the individual Jew does not approach God directly. In our hearts we know this. That is why our people have carefully maintained a legacy of Kohanim. They are given privilege as the first aliyah called to the Torah, in the performance of the Pidyon Haben (the redemption of the firstborn), and in the traditional blessing at the end of Yom Kippur.

The concept of holy advocacy may not sit well with an American Jew during the first quarter of the twenty-first century, accustomed to thinking about religious (and most other) matters in highly individualistic terms. Nevertheless, it is a fair depiction of both Torah’s instruction and Judaism’s historic understanding of relationship with God.

This is the reality that is expressed in the first blessing of the Amidah, the basic prayer of Jewish tradition. This blessing begins by addressing God as “our God and the God of our Fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” and concludes by calling him “the Shield of Abraham.” Thus, we inaugurate our prayer by acknowledging that we have confidence to stand before God and offer him our requests because we are part of the people of Israel, descended from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and heir to all the promises made to the Patriarchs. This is advocacy in the strongest sense.

In Messianic thought, Yeshua is the individual and personal embodiment of the entire people, like Jacob himself. As Israel is referred to in Scripture as God’s son, so Yeshua the Messiah is quintessentially God’s son. If Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses and Aaron, heroic figures that were nonetheless human, fragile, and faulted, could mediate the justice and mercy of God, then how much more could a Kohen Gadol who was tempted in all things and yet was without sin (Heb 4:15)?

Messiah our High Priest doesn’t simply go instead of us as some might posit, but rather ahead of us as our advocate. Therefore, we can follow him into the throne room of grace, confident that we will receive grace and mercy in our time of need.