The Hallmark of Equity

Parashat Shelach L’cha, Numbers 13:1–15:40; Haftarah, Joshua 2:1–24

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

This week’s portion, Shelach L’cha, contains some obvious themes within a familiar narrative: Be bold! Do not fear! Trust God! The majority is not always right! The context, of course, is the twelve spies going into the land of promise and ten of the twelve bringing back troubling reports: “The land is filled with giants!” and “we were like grasshoppers in our own eyes!” (Num 13:33).  The ten could only see the challenges, but the two faithful spies saw the promises of God fulfilled in the elaborate and large produce of the land (Num 13:28).

In stark contrast, though, the spies of our haftarah portion give us a renewed sense of hope. They went into Jericho after forty years of wandering and came out with a completely opposite opinion to that of their predecessors: “Truly the Lord has delivered into our hands all of the land; and moreover, all of the inhabitants of the land melt before us” (Josh 2:24). Not surprisingly, the spies had grown from the discipline of the wilderness. They had learned to trust the God of Israel in all the trials and challenges of living without any other guarantees of safety or provision. But there is a completely different story that is told in the haftarah, which contains significantly different themes if we explore what Christian theologian Walter Brueggemann has called the “counter narrative.”

To do so we must pay greater attention to another character in this story, the enigmatic Rahab. We are not introduced to Rahab until the two spies show up at her door. She not only gives shelter to the two spies but is willing to forsake her own safety and that of her extended family to protect them. In so doing she stands with Israel rather than her own people. It would appear that she believes the promises of Israel’s God and forsakes the protection of her own local deities.

But who is Rahab? The text describes that the two spies went to “the house of an isha zonah and her name is Rahab” (Josh 2:1). Upon first blush this would seem strange. Why would two upstanding Hebrew men go to the house of a prostitute (as the word zonah is classically translated)? Rashi sanitizes the situation, as he often does. He quotes Targum Jonathan who explains that zonah here means pundekita, the Aramaic word for someone who sells food such as an innkeeper or a grocer. The latter explanation obviously makes more sense in this case, as the spies went to stay at her home. Others have concluded otherwise that she was in fact a prostitute. Perhaps she was both. What we might conclude is that she was of marginal status, since she appeared to have little regard for her “hometown” and, frankly, she was a female entrepreneur in an ancient world where women were regarded solely for their procreative capacity.

A friend of mine mused that Rahab might have made an interesting heroine of a Hallmark movie. These movies, from my limited experience, are relatively templated and almost always involve a woman entrepreneur who runs from the confines of her “small” existence to the unforgiving arms of success, fame, and fortune, only to eventually return to the simpler life. Well, maybe this doesn’t really fit Rahab, but she is an entrepreneur surviving in a world where women were generally expected to be either child bearers or sex workers. Surprisingly she finds a place in history and a better life by becoming part of another people in her own hometown. Rahab is recorded among the great people of faith in Israel (Heb 11:31) and becomes part of the ancestry of Yeshua the Messiah (Matt 1:5).

Rahab is a Gentile woman trapped in a dead-end life until God brings the walls that ensnare her toppling down. But this points to another hallmark, the equality of all people before God. In simplest terms, one of the boldest and most hopeful statements about how we should treat each other can be found in Galatians 3:28. It says that in the eyes of God, our differences don't matter anymore. Whether you're Jewish or Gentile, slave or free, male or female, we are all united as one in the perfect future. Paul wrote this to show how our understanding of relationships between different people and groups of people should continue to evolve over time. He used these examples to suggest ethical standards for how we should interact with one another today. It's important to note that Paul isn't saying we should completely ignore our differences, but rather, he's highlighting a reality which is greater than our present reality where hierarchical divisions are breaking down.

It is incumbent upon us to seek the greater reality, to live in the light of the age to come, and to treat everyone as they are, created in the image of the Holy God.

Lonely Like Moses

Parashat Behalot’cha, Numbers 8:1–12:16

Rabbi Russ Resnik

One of the high points of our Shabbat morning service comes as we arise, open the ark to display the Torah scroll, and chant together, “Vay’hi binsoa ha-aron vayomer Moshe . . . And whenever the ark went forward, Moses would say: ‘Arise O Lord, let Your enemies be scattered. May those who hate You flee from before You.’” Then the Torah scroll is carried through the congregation to be received by all, reenacting the scene at Mount Sinai.

These words arise from another high point, one that comes in this week’s parasha, marking a major turn in the whole drama of the deliverance from Egypt. Back in Exodus, the people of Israel had arrived at Mount Sinai after their rescue from bondage to receive the Torah and build the Tabernacle as God’s meeting-place. In Leviticus, they had received instructions on the sacrifices to be offered in the Tabernacle, along with other teachings that shaped them as a holy people. In the first part of Numbers, the people were counted and their encampment was set in order. Finally, “[on] the twentieth day of the second month of the second year, the cloud lifted up from above the Tabernacle of the Testimony. Then Bnei-Yisrael set out on their travels in the Sinai wilderness” (Num 10:11–12a).  

The first part of the journey—the departure from Egypt— is over and now the second part begins, our journey to the Promised Land, with the glory-cloud of Hashem leading the way. As we reenact this scene each week in the synagogue, we recall its prophetic significance: the Word of God goes forth to scatter His enemies and advance toward world redemption. “Arise, Adonai! May Your enemies be scattered!”

But the very next scene in Parashat Behalot’cha is a huge letdown. After this glorious departure, the people begin to complain, “murmuring in the ears of Adonai about hardship,” and longing for the fish they ate in Egypt for free, along with “the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic” (Num 11:1, 5). In plain Yiddish, they’re kvetching big-time.

Anyone who’s been in a position of leadership—whether as a mother or father, a teacher or supervisor, captain of a team, or leader of a congregation or organization—knows how discouraging it can be to hear such complaints. For spiritual leaders in particular, complaints can be a primary source of weariness and disillusionment. Moses is not immune to such discouragement, and it sends him into a massive complaint of his own, a classic model of kvetching, as he asks Hashem: 

Why have You brought trouble on Your servant? Haven’t I found favor in Your eyes—that You laid the burden of all these people on me? Did I conceive all these people, or did I give birth to them, that You should say to me, “Carry them in your bosom just as the nurse carries an infant”—to the land You promised to their fathers? . . . I am not able to carry all these people by myself! The load is too heavy for me! If this is how You are treating me, kill me now! (Num 11:11–12, 14–15)

The Lord doesn’t scold Moses for his kvetching, but He recognizes the core complaint: “I am not able to carry all these people by myself!” Moses feels utterly alone. The people’s murmuring leaves him feeling isolated and alienated, like there’s no one there for him at all. Like many of our holy leaders and prophets in Scripture, Moses experienced intense loneliness, so intense that he wished for death to come and end it.

Amid such spiritual loneliness, God is still present, as the Psalmist notes, “Though my father and my mother forsake me, Adonai will take me in” (Psa 27:10). This deep loneliness can yield a deeper connection with God. In this scene, though, Hashem doesn’t try to talk Moses out of his loneliness, or encourage him to learn from it, but instead provides a remedy, telling Moses:

Bring me 70 of the elders of Israel whom you know to be elders of the people and their leaders. Take them to the Tent of Meeting, so they may stand with you there. Then I will come down and speak with you there, and, I will take some of the Ruach that is on you and will place it on them. They will carry with you the burden of the people, so you will not be carrying it alone. (Num 11:16–17)

There’s a lesson here for us. When we feel alone and isolated, particularly in a leadership position, we can look for other members of the team, whom we might tend to forget or overlook under pressure. We can reach out to them and share our load, not in every case, but more commonly than we may think. And here’s another lesson: To empower the seventy to share in the burden, the Lord takes of the Spirit that’s upon Moses and places it upon them as well. We don’t need to let the complaining of others—or of ourselves—make us forget the power God provides to meet our challenges.

In our parasha, this power spreads more widely than expected and Joshua offers to rein it in. Moses responds in a way that provides yet another lesson: “Are you jealous on my behalf? If only Adonai would make all the people prophets! If only Adonai would put the Spirit on all of them!” (Num 11:29). We see here that it’s possible to get possessive over spiritual power, but such power is no one’s possession. It can’t be doled out and monitored, and in the end we have to trust the source of the power to oversee it. Yes, we’re to maintain a sense of decency and order, but it’s Hashem’s order, not our own domesticated variety.

Moses, of course, is speaking prophetically when he wishes for all God’s people to have the Spirit. Later, through the prophet Joel, Hashem promises to fulfil that wish:

So it will be afterward,
I will pour out My Ruach on all flesh:
your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your old men will dream dreams,
your young men will see visions.
Also on the male and the female servants
will I pour out My spirit in those days. (Joel 3:1–2 [2:28–29])

This promise enters its fulfillment stage on the Shavuot that comes shortly after Messiah’s Resurrection, as recorded in Acts 2.

With divine elegance, Hashem’s response to Moses’ problem of loneliness and alienation sets the stage for a far grander remedy.

All this brings us back to our Torah service. When we recite, “Whenever the ark went forward, Moses would say: ‘Arise O Lord, let Your enemies be scattered,’” we’re looking back to our journey in the wilderness with God’s presence going before us. And then we add words from Isaiah 2 that look to the future: “For Torah will go forth from Zion and the word of Adonai from Jerusalem.”

We look back to the journey that brought us into the Promised Land, and we look ahead to the time when the word of God, which preceded us on that journey, will go forth from the Promised Land to all the nations. This two-fold vision is far more powerful than any kvetching we may possibly encounter or produce ourselves. As we recite these lines each week, may we recall the words of Isaiah that wrap up this part of his vision: “Come house of Jacob, let us walk in the light of Adonai” (Isa 2:5).  

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

Everybody Counts!

Parashat Naso: Numbers 4:21–7:89; Haftarah: Judges 13:2–25

Rachel Wolf, Beth Messiah Congregation, Cincinnati

“Naso” means “Lift up!” It is the opening command of this portion: “Lift up the head of the sons of Gershon [a Levitical family].” Lift up the head is a Hebrew idiom that means to count. Everyone gets counted in Numbers. And everyone counts! Many people skip over this portion with long lists of names and details. But this detailed ancient history should fascinate us! Here, the world of our ancestors is miraculously preserved for us.

Tabernacle Transport—a Priestly Duty

In our last portion, Bemidbar, Moses and Aaron counted all the firstborn and the men of fighting age from every tribe, and then counted the Priests and Levites. Bemidbar (the book of Numbers) marks a significant turning-point in the history of the Israelites. For over a year they have been camped at Sinai, focusing on all of God’s instructions for building the Mishkan (tabernacle). It is now the time to pick up and go!

One of the most important parts of breaking camp and moving on toward the land of their inheritance is how to transport the holy Mishkan and all of its vessels. God explains to Moses and Aaron precisely how to do this. He divides the jobs between the three main Levitical families. They are to carefully carry the vessels and utensils of the sanctuary, wrapped in the skins and cloths itemized in 4:1–20.  The travel responsibilities of the sons of Kohath are detailed in last week’s portion. In this week’s portion, starting in 4:21, the Lord explains how and what the sons of Gershon and the sons of Merari are to pack and carry. This is a special calling from the Lord; an awesome responsibility!

For all three Levitical family groups, those who are to do this important work of transporting the Mishkan are mature men. They are counted from age thirty to age fifty. Compare that with the fighting men counted from age twenty, and the firstborn counted from age one month. Everyone is counted! Every Israelite is important to the whole people. Each has a particular place and calling.

After all the counting and organization for transporting the Mishkan, Numbers 6 details the laws of the Nazirite vow. The Nazirite vow is another type of special calling from the Lord. The Nazirite offering initiates a time of special dedication or separation to the Lord for the one bringing the offering. Generally this was a temporary commitment (sometimes voluntary, sometimes commanded) for a set time period. In certain rare cases, it was a lifelong calling, like the priestly calling.

Haftarah Reading: The Nazirite Vow in Action

Judges 13 tells of Samson’s calling to be a lifelong Nazirite. Samson was called to save his people from the Philistines. For this, he needed to be specially separated unto God. Two important characters in the Apostolic Writings also took Nazirite vows, Yohanan and Paul. There are quite a number of similarities between Samson and Yohanan (John) the cousin of Yeshua. Compare Judges 13 and Luke 1:

1. Their births were at a time of great turmoil for Israel. (Jud 13:1 / Luke 1:5, the days of Herod)

2. They are both miraculously born to barren older women. (Jud 13:3 / Luke 1:7)

3. Their miraculous births are announced (quite unexpectedly) by an angel of the Lord. (Jud 13:3 / Luke 1:11)

4. They are both called as Nazirites from birth. (Jud 13:5, 13 / Luke 1:15–17)

5. They are both raised up by the Sovereign God to deliver his covenant people from their enemies. (Jud 13:5 / Luke 1:17—Yohanan is to prepare the people for Yeshua.)

6. Though the Nazirite vow is usually temporary, both Yohanan and Samson were called to be lifelong Nazirites. (Jud 13:3–5 / Luke 1:15)

7. They are both filled with the Spirit of God in an unusual way. (Jud 13:25 / Luke 1:15b)

8. Their birth miracles are accompanied by an offering being accepted by heaven in an unusual way. (Jud 13:19–20 / Luke 1:8–11. The incense offering in Luke represents the prayer of the people for deliverance.)

The Barren Woman: instrument of God’s deliverance

But the special calling of these set-apart Nazirites did not start with them. It starts with their mothers! The Bible speaks a lot about men, but it also recognizes that women count too. Jewish tradition understands God as working within certain repeated themes in Israel’s history. One of these repeated themes is God’s honoring and blessing of a barren woman to conceive a miraculous son whose birth will be instrumental in bringing Israel into complete deliverance and redemption. Rather than not counting, as many today understand the Bible’s view of women, these women were highly honored.

We see this honor bestowed on Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Hannah, Manoah’s unnamed wife, Elizabeth, and Miriam (Yeshua’s mother). In each case these women are greatly honored by God. In the songs of both Hannah and Miriam (1Samuel 2 and Luke 1:46 ff.) we see that they understood their pregnancy and the life of their sons to be much more than personal. They each see, in powerful terms, their pregnancy as their active participation in God’s deliverance of Israel.

Long hair is not just for hippies

The other, lesser known apostolic Nazirite vow is the one apparently taken by Paul. This is not explicitly stated, so it is somewhat speculative. But it seems like the best explanation for a little-noticed event in Paul’s life:

So Paul still remained [in Corinth] a good while. Then he took leave of the brethren and sailed for Syria, and Priscilla and Aquila were with him. He had his hair cut off at Cenchrea, for he had taken a vow. (Acts 18:18)

Numbers 6 outlines the laws of the Nazirite (nazir). The Hebrew nazir means dedicated or consecrated. This word is also used of the grape vines given over and not harvested during the sabbatical year (Lev. 25:5). In addition to staying away from fermented drinks and from corpse contamination, there is one more prohibition for the nazir:  “All the days of the vow of his separation, no razor shall come upon his head . . . he shall let the locks of the hair on his head grow” (Num 6:5). And then,

When the days of his separation are fulfilled, he shall be brought to the door of the tabernacle of meeting, and he shall present his offering to the Lord. . . . Then the Nazirite shall shave his consecrated head at the door of the tabernacle of meeting, and shall take the hair from his consecrated head and put it on the fire which is under the sacrifice of the peace offering. (Num 6:13–14a, 18)

Cenchrea (Acts 18:18) was the easternmost port city of the large province of Corinth, located right on the Aegean Sea. Just before setting sail for Syria, it seems Paul completed his Nazirite vow. Most likely, he had his head shaved in a simple ceremony at the local synagogue at Cenchrea because he was not able to get to the Temple in Jerusalem to bring the required offerings. Perhaps we will one day find out the reason Paul apparently took a Nazirite vow.

Whether packing and carrying the sacred objects for the sanctuary, setting oneself apart for a devoted “sabbatical” time, or willingly carrying a child to be born for Israel’s salvation, responding to God’s call involves holy service with serious consequences. Even natural processes like childbirth can become the key to new chapters in God’s eternal redemptive purposes when we, like Sarah, Hannah, or Miriam, give ourselves over to the service of God. As Miriam proclaims:

 For He who is mighty has done great things for me,
And holy is His name.
And His mercy is on those who fear Him
From generation to generation. (Luke 1:49–50)

 Everybody counts!

 Scripture references are NKJV.

Special Jewels, Sweethearts, and Distinctions

Shavuot 5783

Matthew Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Hollywood, FL

Now therefore, if you will indeed obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession among all peoples, for all the earth is mine; and you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. These are the words that you shall speak to the people of Israel. (Exodus 19:5–6)

As we prepare for this year’s celebration of Shavuot, we are reminded again in this week’s reading of the affectionate nature of our God. He calls his chosen “li segulah,” “my treasured possession.” It’s a phrase in the Torah reserved for the Lord’s relationship to his bride, Israel. Ibn Ezra in his commentary on Exodus 19 shares that segulah can also be translated as simply “precious,” “treasure,” or “jewel.” This is Hashem’s term of endearment for you and me, “My Special Jewel.” With this endearment he makes a distinction between Israel and the nations around them.

As a husband I can relate to this emotion. As it happens, there are many women in the world with the name Annie, and there are many who have been called sweetheart. But there is only one who is called “My Annie,” “My sweetheart.” I can only wish you all the blessing of this distinction in your own life.

This distinction is a beautiful thing. First, it allows us to move through the world with freedom. It sets us free from the stagnation of uncertainty and emotional chaos, and establishes our feet on a straight path. It allows our hearts to move forward with purpose and direction, loving only one, to the exclusion of all others.  

Second, it provides clarity to our most fundamental of questions. I am a husband to “My Annie.” I am a father to “My children.” I am a provider to “My household.” This distinction of marriage brings clarity and definition to my identity, which defines the daily choices I make.  

Midrashically speaking, the Torah is our marriage covenant with the Lord. It is within the bonds of covenant that we discover the freedoms of distinction, fidelity, and purpose. The result is peace and stability. Our forefather David said it this way: “Those who love your Torah have great peace; nothing makes them stumble” (Psa 119:165). 

Within the Messianic Jewish community we rightly live and share the Besorah of our Lord Yeshua, and his redemptive sacrifice that brings us into covenantal fidelity with him. In Matthew 26 our Lord says, “This is my blood of the covenant.” From this we have life and life eternally.  

In conjunction with this new life, let us also live and share the happy news of Torah! David again speaks of the happiness of Torah-living in this way: “How happy are those who observe his instruction, who seek him wholeheartedly!” (Psa 119:20). In a world that is enslaved in confusion, infidelity, and nihilism, we have a desperately needed message of distinction, fidelity, and purpose. This is the message of the Torah.

In his letter to the Jewish people, our forefather James calls the Torah “the perfect Torah of liberty” (1:25). The opposite of Torah is not grace. The opposite of Torah is slavery. Slavery to sins against God and our fellow man. Slavery to confusion, infidelity, and nihilism. Slavery to false idols.  

On this day some 2000 years ago, Simon Peter, empowered by the Ruach, spoke with courage and fidelity to the pilgrimage crowds gathered at the Temple. Just as when the Torah was first given at Mt Sinai, the Holy Spirit was poured out among the Jewish people, starting with the faithful disciples of our Lord. Peter shared this message with our people gathered to worship:  

Moreover, he has been exalted to the right hand of God; has received from the Father what he promised, namely, the Ruach HaKodesh; and has poured out this gift, which you are both seeing and hearing. (Acts 2:33) 

This Shavuot, I encourage you to not take for granted the blessings of peace and stability that the Ruach brings to your life through Torah faithfulness. I encourage you to remember that outside the doors of your home and synagogue, is a world full of confusion and pain, longing for that same peace. May we have the courage and fidelity to bring that peace to them.

Shavuot is called “Z’man Matan Torateinu,” “the time of the giving of our Torah.” And so it is, that on this day of Shavuot, we have received two great gifts. The gift of the Torah, and the gift of Ruach HaKodesh. Let us not keep these gifts to ourselves, but let us actively share them with the world. Hag Shavuot Sameach to you all!

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

Who is Mighty?

Parashat Bemidbar, Numbers 1:1–4:20

Dave Nichol, Congregation Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

It doesn’t take long after entering the book of Numbers (Bemidbar, the name of our parasha and the book it begins) to detect a theme. While the Hebrew name of the book derives, as usual, from one of the first key words, the English name, from the Greek Septuagint, puts it starkly: this book is about numbers. Or more accurately, it seems to be about counting, classifying, and organizing—in particular, organizing the people. As R. Avi Fertig points out in The Mussar Torah Commentary, “The middah [attribute] of seder (order) permeates the entire parashah.” The different names of the book may be related: the barren openness of the wilderness (the midbar, giving us the Hebrew name) demanded organization and coordination—including counting and arranging—for the Israelites to survive. 

This theme is to be found not only in the census of the Israelites, but also in the fact that they are counted by tribe. Moses, following God’s command, recognizes leaders for tribes and clans. He also sets the relative locations of where each tribe is to camp, with the Mishkan, or Tabernacle, at the center. Levites are given special attention, with their own census and specific responsibilities for their clans.

Implied in this arrangement and classification is the concept of boundaries. The commentator Ramban (Nachmanides, 13th c. Spain, Israel) notes the importance of boundaries in the introduction to his commentary on Bemidbar. He finds a connection between the restriction on approaching the Mishkan (Num 1:51) and the restrictions on approaching Mount Sinai (see Exod 19:12). Now that we are on the move, we don’t discard the notions of holiness and separation; rather, the holy, and the boundaries it implies, move with us.

By organizing the camp in this way, Moses is engaging in multiple acts of separation, or havdalah. Reubenites camp here, Danites over there; Levites can go near the mishkan, others must not. In this sense it is a continuation of God’s creative effort, which also begins as a series of separations: distinguishing light and dark, night and day, earth and sky, land and sea. Thus the ordering of the Israelite camp is a continuation of ma’aseh bereishit, the act of creation.

This raises the question of why these passages are meaningful for us today. What might it mean to imitate God’s creation, to take marching orders from Moses’ organization of the Israelite camp (and implicitly, Israelite society)? While the effort of bringing order to the world can be focused externally (science, politics, even gardening), it is useful to first turn it inward, with a focus on ordering our own lives and communities. Lest we think that creating order in our inner lives is easier or less important, the Mishnah (Pirkei Avot 4:1) tells us:

Who is mighty (gibor)? One who subdues their [evil] inclination, as it is said: “One that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and one that rules their spirit than one that takes a city” (Proverbs 16:3).

Anyone who has tried to break a bad habit knows how true this is! 

According to the kabbalistic tradition, one of the aspects of God’s interaction with the world is gevurah, or strength. It represents the ability to limit or restrain; the power to impose boundaries. As humans made in God’s image, we can reflect his attributes. Thus gevurah became associated with self-discipline and restraint in the mussar tradition of Jewish ethics, which we are drawing on in our focus on the fruit of the Spirit as we count the Omer this year.

One insight from the kabbalistic narrative is that even God engages in self-limitation, in a process called tzimtzum, making space for the universe to exist “outside” God’s self. This extraordinary act of humility and ḥesed (gracious love) allows the world to be created. Similarly, another act of self-limitation, the incarnation of Yeshua, teaches us that gevurah—literally, “strength”—is not primarily shown in conquering others, but in conquering the self in service of others. 

As we approach completion of our cycle of counting the Omer, how might we cultivate this middah of self-control? As mussar is a deeply practical tradition, here are some concrete ideas that might help:

• Start with awareness. Watch yourself closely. Ask your friends and family members about where  you are too strict, and where you are too lax. Then watch yourself closely. Looking for self-control in snacking? Make a note in a journal each time you snack. My favorite (by which I mean most painful, and thus, least favorite) approach is to look at my children’s bad behavior, and ask myself if I’m modeling it for them (hint: usually I am). Daily journaling, a time-honored mussar practice, is another great way to build awareness.

• Psychologist Mordechai Rotenberg (The Psychology of Tzimtzum: Self, Other and God) applies the concept of tzimtzum to human relationships. Make space for others instead of imposing yourself on every situation. This is where gevurah interacts with the middah of anavah/humility, which can be defined as “taking up the right amount of space: not too much, and not too little.” Do we have relationships where we should impose less of ourselves, giving others more (or less) space?

• Fix things in small doses: to change a behavior, start with changing it for a short amount of time. For example, set an alarm to remind yourself to avoid that behavior between five and six each day. As that becomes manageable, build on it by expanding the time window.

• We don’t live in a vacuum, so it’s important to think about the people around us. Lean in to your healthy relationships, those that encourage you to be better. Add a dose of intentionality and transparency. Do you have a mussar ḥavruta partner that you can study with, and who can give you feedback on your growth, or lack thereof? As Joshua ben Perachiah (Pirkei Avot 1:7) says, “Acquire for yourself a companion!”

• Look at the systems in your life. It’s hard to change by raw force of will, but big changes can be made by setting yourself up for change in small ways. See James Clear’s Atomic Habits: An Easy & Proven Way to Build Good Habits and Break Bad Ones for some practical guidance, such as becoming aware of cues that trigger your habits, changing your environment, and making change in small, lasting increments.

Some might say that this kind of self-focused gevurah is overly individualistic, or too self-focused. “Address systemic problems first!” they might say. Without a doubt, change at a societal, systemic level is always needed. But without mussar at the individual level, any systemic change will be undermined by lack of humility, and by corruption, narcissism, ambition, and baseless hatred. Or have you not read the news recently? I firmly believe the world needs leaders who start with their own middot before addressing all the specks in others’ eyes.

In that spirit, the author Aldous Huxley wrote, “I wanted to change the world, but I have found that the only thing one can be sure of changing is oneself.” Mr. Huxley may even overstate the case . . . changing ourselves is no sure thing! But we are not free to desist from the work. May the Creator give us the strength to order our lives—as individuals, and as a community—as we set off through the desert toward the land of promise!

The Servant and the Served

Humility/Parashat Behar-Bechukotai, Leviticus 25:1–27:34
Chaim Dauermann, Congregation Simchat Yisrael, West Haven, CT

Our society is not a humble one. One only needs to briefly look at our entertainment, our advertisements, and our politics to know that this is so. In opposition to humility, humanity all too often celebrates pride. Contrary to the world, however, the Torah puts an exceedingly high value on humility. Of this, Nachman of Breslov, founder of the Breslov Hasidim, once said: “The Torah itself becomes coarse in the mouth of a man of pride.” Jewish tradition exalts humility as well, and the Talmud is full of discourse on its nature and importance. In Avodah Zarah 20b, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi holds up humility as the highest virtue, leading to the Ruach ha-Kodesh and the world to come. 

Throughout Torah, we are admonished to be humble, both in the form of direct commandments, and by way of example. In Numbers 12:3 we read: “Now the man Moses was very humble, more so than anyone on the face of the earth.” (With Moses traditionally acknowledged as the writer of the five books of the Torah, we shall set aside, for now, the question of whether a man who would write that about himself can still qualify as being humble!) And this week’s parasha, Behar-Bechukotai, features much instruction related to humility, specifically in the form of laws governing our interactions with others in matters of status and wealth. What happens when a member of the community falls on hard times, and suddenly has very limited means? It is then that God presses us into humble service. 

If one of your brethren becomes poor, and falls into poverty among you, then you shall help him, like a stranger or a sojourner, that he may live with you. Take no usury or interest from him; but fear your God, that your brother may live with you. You shall not lend him your money for usury, nor lend him your food at a profit. I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, to give you the land of Canaan and to be your God. (Lev 25:35–38 NKJV)

We find similar commands throughout the Torah: God instructs Israel not to mistreat a sojourner living among them (Lev 19:33), nor widows, nor orphans (Exod 22:22, Deut 24:17). He expects the people of Israel to provide for those who are hungry (Lev 23:22). And while, on their face, merciful acts on behalf of the less fortunate may not seem like an act of humility, the scriptures tie them together. The prophet Micah tells us, “He has told you, humanity, what is good, and what Adonai is seeking from you: Only to practice justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God” (6:8). And the Torah often packages its instructions for neighborly provision with a humbling reminder:

For Adonai your God is God of gods and Lord of lords —the great, mighty and awesome God, who does not show partiality or take a bribe. He enacts justice for the orphan and widow, and loves the outsider, giving him food and clothing. Therefore love the outsider, for you were outsiders in the land of Egypt. (Deut  10:17–19)

In this passage and in a half-dozen other places in Torah, God reminds Bnei-Yisrael to recall their former status as foreigners or slaves in the land of Egypt. 

But it is not just in the giving of aid to the poor and to the stranger that we find the value of humility. These commands have a second level, just below the surface. Look again at Leviticus 25:35, this time from a different angle: “If one of your brethren becomes poor, and falls into poverty among you, then you shall help him.” This is more or less how the text is rendered in most English translations. But a more literal rendering of the Hebrew reads something more along these lines: “ . . . becomes poor, his hand has failed with you, then you are to strengthen him.” The subtext is one of more than simply hard financial times, but of some level of incapacity as well. Weakness. While the value being put forward in the text is generosity, there is another value in view in the background: being willing to accept help from others while we are in a state of weakness can require a humble heart. To be in need is humbling, and equally humbling is the experience of relying on others to do something you’d otherwise do yourself. To support your neighbor in need, your neighbor must in turn humble himself to receive, otherwise the entire transaction falls apart. For every “humble servant,” there ideally ought to be a corresponding “humble served.”

We see this dynamic play out in how Yeshua has come to us, and how he calls us to come to him in response. Not only does he model humility for us, he also shows how it is only through humility that we can be rescued from our sin and inherit the eternal life that has been prepared for us. Yeshua came to us as the “suffering servant” described in Isaiah 53. He tells us, “the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matt  20:28). His ministry in the first century focused on the poor, the outcast, the sick, the lame—people with no hope. When he suffered the ultimate price at his execution, he did something that we cannot do alone. In rescuing us from our sins, he has strengthened us, though our hands have failed us. The problems of sin and death are beyond our capacity to take on alone. And we must humbly ask for his help in order to receive it.

In entering into our world, Yeshua took on human flesh with all of its complexities, sufferings, and contradictions. And by entering into our experience, he embodied humility in all of its breadth as well. In Matthew 25, he gives us a glimpse of when he returns to judge the world. 

Then the King will say to those on His right, “Come, you who are blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger and you invited Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.” Then the righteous will answer Him, “Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You? Or thirsty and give You something to drink? And when did we see You a stranger and invite You in? Or naked and clothe You? When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ And answering, the King will say to them, “Amen, I tell you, whatever you did to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.” (Matt 25:34–40)

Here, Yeshua casts himself not as the servant, but as the served. As his disciples, we can experience the fullness of humility through emulating his example, treating others how we would wish to be treated, yet also seeing that in serving one another, we are in fact rendering service to the Lord. Perhaps, as we grow in this understanding, we can glimpse something of what the sages divined about humility’s importance, and its capacity to bring us nearer to God. 

Unless otherwise stated, all scripture quotations are taken from the TLV.

Learning to Trust in God’s Faithfulness

Faithfulness / Parashat Emor: Leviticus 21:1-24:23

Ben Volman, Vice-President, UMJC

I will never forget the first time that I saw Canon Andrew White at our 2017 summer conference in Chicago. His assistant, Esther, had pushed him on stage sitting in his wheelchair wearing a dark blazer with a silk bow-tie. After he was introduced as the famed “Vicar of Baghdad,” I still wasn’t sure what this smiling gentleman with the British accent could say to a room full of Jews in kippas and jeans. But he held us spellbound.

Canon White had navigated between the highest offices in Israel and Yassar Arafat. Because he was a singular man of faith, equally trusted by Palestinians and Israelis, he negotiated peace in the most dangerous situations, including the siege of the Church of the Nativity in 2002. He’d seen the power of Yeshua transform lives as a beacon of hope while under fire in the worst days of the war in Iraq. He had wept over the bodies of families who loved Yeshua and committed himself to being a father for the children who survived. His talk at the conference had no particular theme; no pressing ministry to promote. He was living the message of God’s faithfulness. I wondered if I could be privileged to know this man as a friend.

When I was leading my first congregations, I often struggled to explain what it means to live by faith. People would want to know, “How do I get more faith?” They would read Hebrews 11:1—“faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (NIV)—and feel convicted, but no closer to walking confidently in their convictions. And then I heard a simple phrase that I have since often repeated, especially to new believers: “Faith is trusting in God’s faithfulness.”

All that I know about faithfulness, I learned from following Yeshua. I easily recall my own early experiences, trying to be a “spiritual generator” and trying to muster up the determination to believe when things seemed hopeless. Instead of calmly entrusting myself and the situation into God’s care, I would get tied up in an emotional, or even physical, knot that only left me more anxious and wondering if I really had faith at all. Learning to focus on God’s faithfulness allowed me to step back and see what John Bunyan once described as the Lord’s “great ocean of grace.” Perhaps that is the greatest blessing of seeing God’s faithfulness over time, as James promises, “the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:3–4 NIV). We keep learning to trust in the sustaining reality of his faithfulness day by day and through the seasons of life.

This is a unique aspect of this week’s parasha, Emor. Here in Leviticus 23, God lays out for Moshe the mo’adim, those “designated times” of festivals that God has given us to honor, celebrate, renew, and restore the sacred covenant relationship that binds us together with him.  That word, mo’adim, first appears in Genesis, as God puts lights in the heavens and declares they will be “for signs, seasons [mo’adim], days and years” (1:14 CJB). It’s fitting that the miracle of Creation is celebrated by the very first and foremost of our mo’adim, the Shabbat and its wonderful attributes of rest from labor and focus on God’s covenant faithfulness and blessings. Once again, over the years I have come to understand that my own education in faithfulness has come through marking each one of these holy days. Each festival, as the great modern prophetic teacher Abraham Joshua Heschel explained in his book on the Sabbath, is like “a cathedral in time” and we learn to be faithful as they teach us “to consecrate sanctuaries that emerge from the magnificent stream of a year.”  

I look back and realize that, as a child, these holy days were my first education in faithfulness, and a comforting reminder about God’s continuing presence in my life, even through the most difficult seasons. When we restore these sanctuaries in time, we are keeping faith with those whose faithfulness gave us this legacy. The candles we light, the traditions we share around the table are a reminder that God has been faithful to those who entrusted their faith and hope to us.  

Those first lessons are the beginning, but when I think of faithfulness, I think of Yeshua. I have been privileged to share the confidences and the struggles of brothers and sisters in ministry over several decades. But we are also blessed to be witnesses to Yeshua’s faithfulness. How many times was Yeshua so wonderfully present to sustain our community? How many times did a word come through the Spirit when our leaders sought his direction? How many times did Yeshua in his grace bless me when my own faith had fallen short? Above all, I can look back on so many gracious answers to prayer that kept us growing in our trust. I believe that this is what Rav Sha’ul means when he writes in Romans 1:17: “For in the gospel the righteousness of God is revealed—a righteousness that is by faith from first to last, just as it is written: ‘The righteous will live by faith’” (NIV).

Years ago, a member of my congregation had been a missionary in North Ontario with a young family. They were struggling financially on a meager salary and at one point had run out of money. His wife told him that they didn’t have enough food to feed the family that evening. He decided to lay out the dishes and confessed that he was not all that happy as he turned toward heaven and said aloud, “Lord, you know, it’s five o’clock and this is when my family eats supper.” His prayer was interrupted by a loud knocking and commotion at the door. It was a neighbor with his hands full. “Look at that!” he said, pointing to a group of friends who were getting into their cars. “I invited them over for roast beef dinner and they all want to go out to the local restaurant. Can you possibly use this meal?” 

As my wife, Sue, and I left the Chicago conference, we considered ourselves fortunate to have gotten to know Canon Andrew’s remarkable assistant at the time, Esther, and grateful for the chance to have connected with Andrew briefly. We got to the airport for our flight back to Toronto only to find that our flight was not only delayed, but might not even leave that day. We were surprised and confused, but decided to head back to the conference hotel where we were most likely to get a room. The next morning, at breakfast, as we were entering the dining room we met Canon Andrew and Esther. We shared a wonderful time together and Andrew told me that he has families that he visits in Toronto, and it was the beginning of a friendship that was also a blessing for his ministry and certainly a great blessing for us. And my lessons in faith and faithfulness continue.   

What Is This Thing Called Love?

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

Rabbi Stuart Dauermann, Ahavat Zion Messianic Synagogue, Los Angeles

Many people skip over Leviticus, assuming these archaic chapters are irrelevant to our lives. This week’s parasha proves such people to be mistaken. Read coherently, and taken seriously, even two verses in today’s parasha can transform our lives in service to God and mankind.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks opens our understanding:

At first glance, these laws have nothing to do with one another: some are about conscience, some about politics and economics, and others about purity and taboo. Clearly, though, the Torah is telling us otherwise. They do have something in common. They are all about order, limits, boundaries. They are telling us that reality has a certain underlying structure whose integrity must be honored. If you hate or take revenge you destroy relationships. If you commit injustice, you undermine the trust on which society depends. If you fail to respect the integrity of nature (different seeds, species, and so on), you take the first step down a path that ends in environmental disaster. (https://rabbisacks.org/love-not-enough-acharei-mot-kedoshim-5778/)

Two verses in Leviticus/Vayikra 19 turn us around and propel us forward.

Vayikra 19:18 reminds us how the good life includes loving our neighbor as ourselves. In Torah’s historical context, one’s neighbors would be our fellow community members, joined to us by covenant, expressed or implied. This remains true today whether speaking of religious covenants that Jews share in common, or secular covenants like the Constitution of the United States, or contractual arrangements with members of housing cooperatives.

In Luke 10:25–37, a scribe questions Yeshua on the extent of our obligation to love our neighbor as ourselves, asking, “Who is my neighbor?” The scribe may want to limit the term to his own crowd, countrymen, or cronies. Yeshua’s response is the parable of the Good Samaritan, insisting that our neighbor is anyone we treat in a neighborly fashion. Yeshua’s point? The responsibility for treating others with love always falls on our shoulders, and godly people are those who apply the term “neighbor” in a liberal rather than restricted manner. 

A second verse in Leviticus drives this point home.  

Vayikra 19:34 tells us we must not only love our neighbor as ourselves, but also “treat the foreigner staying with you like the native-born among you — you are to love him (the foreigner, the stranger) as yourself . . . I am Adonai your God.”  

If we are paying attention, we may protest that God is being politically intrusive. He is. He is messing with our categories of obligation, just as Yeshua did with the inquiring scribe. The circle of obligation extends beyond our preferences, prejudices, and comfort zone. 

We’ve been talking about loving both neighbor and stranger. But what is this thing called love?

What Torah means by this kind of love is best conveyed by the Hebrew hesed, a concept so rich it defies simple word-for-word translation into any other language. You will see it translated as mercy; other times, as kindness, lovingkindness, goodness, and covenant faithfulness. But even then the dynamic nature of hesed pulls against the confines of the words we choose as equivalents. They are not equivalent because none of these words help us feel the warmth and sense the scope of the Hebrew. 

Rabbi Sacks warms up our cold and narrow definitions:

Hesed is about emotional support, loving-kindness, love as compassion. It is what we mean when we speak of God in Psalm 147 as one who “heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds.” It includes hospitality to the lonely, visiting the sick, comforting the bereaved, raising the spirits of the depressed, helping people through crises in their lives, and making those at the margins feel part of the community. (https://media.rabbisacks.org/20210706224059/Unit-6-Advanced-Level-Student.pdf?_gl=1).

Hesed is always on the move, proactively involved in meeting the needs of others. That’s what Avraham did when he went forth to meet three traveling strangers and feed them lavishly in Genesis 18, just one biblical example of hesed on the move.   

We might define hesed as “familial responsiveness,” that is, responding to others and their needs as if they are members of our family to whom we owe our engagement and concern.

The scholar Catherine Doob Sakenfeld takes us deeper still. Here is a list of hesed’s characteristics, adapted from her work, Responsiveness in Action: Loyalty in Biblical Perspective:

1. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is made manifest in concrete action.

2. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is to another person (or persons) in relationship with the one who takes action; it is not simply a commitment to an idea or a cause.

3. Hesed/Familial Responsiveness is offered to a person in need by a person seeking to fill the need. Narrative texts in the Bible tend to focus on dramatic needs, but even the smallest need in the most everyday situation might become an occasion for showing hesed.

4. The need places the potential recipient in a position of dependence on the one in a position to demonstrate hesed.

5. There are no societal legal sanctions for the failure to demonstrate hesed; thus the doer is in a situation of free decision.

6. Hence, hesed is shown in a freely undertaken fulfillment of an existing commitment to another who is now in a situation of need.

Sakenfeld’s first point speaks of making hesed manifest through actions that display hesed.

Such actions are termed “g’milut hasadim,” (lit., “the bestowal of lovingkindness”), the most comprehensive and fundamental of all Jewish social virtues, which encompasses the whole range of the duties of sympathetic consideration toward one’s fellow man. (https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/gemilut-hasadim)

We see a cluster of such g’milut hasadim in a narrative of Kefa’s ministry in the Book of Acts. In rapid succession, Kefa heals a paralyzed man named Aeneas (9:33–34), and then the scene shifts to Yafo, where a woman named Tavita is known for her acts of tzedakah (financial help to the needy) and other good deeds (9:35–36). She takes ill and dies and the women of the community wash her body in preparation for burial (9:37). Two men ask Kefa to come to Yafo, and there the women show him garments Tavita had made for others in the community, most likely poor women she was helping (9:39). Kefa prays for Tavita and raises her up (9:40–42). All of these actions are g’milut hasadim, deeds of familial responsiveness, demonstrating hesed. Scripture highlights the importance of hesed on the move by clustering these examples together.   

For us, as for the scribe who queried Yeshua, perhaps the hardest thing about hesed is welcoming and serving the stranger. The more different from us the stranger is in appearance, station in life, and opinion, the harder it is to touch their needs with our provision and concern.

But can we be true children of the Avraham of Genesis 18 without welcoming and serving the stranger through deeds of hesed?

Priest and author Henri Nouwen, in his book Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life, takes us still deeper.  

Although many, we might even say most, strangers in this world become easily the victim of a fearful hostility, it is . . . obligatory for us [as God’s people] to offer an open and hospitable space where strangers can cast off their strangeness and become our fellow human beings. The movement from hostility to hospitality is hard and full of difficulties. Our society seems to be increasingly full of fearful, defensive, aggressive people anxiously clinging to their property and inclined to look at their surrounding world with suspicion, always expecting an enemy to suddenly appear, intrude and do harm.   

These are the strangers, the foreigners, whom Torah demands we love as we love ourselves, just as we would love the members of our own family.

Hesed is treating others with familial responsiveness, whether close-in cronies or strangers from afar.

What is this thing called love? It is following in the footsteps of Avraham. It is imitating the kind of familial responsiveness we saw Kefa and the community demonstrate in Acts 9. It is treating even strangers like family and proactively seeking to meet their needs.

Hesed-love for others makes demands upon us while reducing the demands upon them.

Of all the fruits of the Spirit, this is the sweetest.

Staying in a Place Called Calm

Week Three of the Omer

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

This week as we count the Omer, we are examining the middot (character traits) of Peace and Patience. The Apostolic Witness refers to these as “Fruit of the Spirit,” or the character we demonstrate when we live by God’s highest standards as presented in Torah and guided by the Spirit of Hashem. But the practice of Mussar and the Apostolic instruction do not present these as magic manifestations, but rather the result of an ongoing attempt to be image bearers of the Holy Blessing One. I have found that the fruit of patience and peace are most evident when I allow myself to live in a place called calm.

In the fall of 1985 Hurricane Gloria worked its way up the eastern coast of the United States, eventually crossing the Long Island Sound and passing over Milford, Connecticut, where I resided with my family. To the best of my knowledge, I had never before seen a category 4 hurricane or anything close to it.  So as the storm was developing over the small beach community, I drove to a public beach and parked in the empty municipal lot. As I trudged toward the beach, I fought my way through the driving winds and rain. I was able to get within about 100 yards of where low tide should have been before being hit with the spray of the crashing waves. This was the end of my misplaced bravado, and I ran back to my car and drove toward home and high ground.

From the relative safety of the third floor of our steel frame apartment complex we spent hours observing the storm and its many vicissitudes. Then the unexpected occurred. The eye of the storm passed over Milford. The winds subsided, the rain reduced to a drizzle and the sky took on a strange luminescence surrounded by an ominous frame of dark threat. It was then that I had an odd epiphany; calm is a place, a strange and unfamiliar place.

I don’t generally do calm, and I certainly don’t do it well. I hadn’t really known that, because I had never been there before. I had always been good at fighting through and surviving life’s struggles, but I had never actually patiently sat in the eye of a storm before. I really didn’t know if I liked it, but I reckoned it was certainly a lot safer than walking in the storm. It was like being unable to scratch an itch, and yet learning how to ignore it. I previously understood calm as a condition that certain other people had, an innate passivity. I learned that calm is not only a place, but also one that requires active occupation. I have spent the last 37 years trying to get a little more comfortable in the place called calm. Here are a few of the lessons I have learnt:

Cede Control – This means letting go of trying to control things over which you have no control anyway. I believe one of the prime causes of our anxiety is our wanting things to be different than they are. Yes, we all want a peaceful world instead of a world filled with weapons of mass destruction. Yes, we all want health instead of illness. Yes, we all want healthy, happy children instead of children who break our hearts. But sometimes life doesn’t hand us what we want. When we stop needing it to all to be a certain way, we can breathe a sigh of relief and open the door to a more powerful way of living.

Regain Control – When we fully understand that you have little control over the external world, we then have two choices: either we can choose to see ourselves as victims at the mercy of circumstances or we can choose to develop the trust that, no matter what happens in our lives or in the world, we will have the inner strength to create something good from it all. I have found one way to develop personal trust is to cut off negativity by saying over and over again, “Whatever happens in my life, I’ll handle it!”  So, when the “what-if’s” are driving me crazy, I simply cut them off by saying over and over again, “Whatever happens, I’ll handle it!” I’ve actually learned at times to handle it and get some sleep in the interim! 

Embrace the Experience – Yes, you can learn and find strength from anything that happens to you, so despite what is happening in your life and in the world, constantly remind yourself “I can learn from this.” When you can see the opportunities inherent in all situations, good or bad, it truly helps you embrace all the uncertainty in your life. A prayer that I have found God will always answer when prayed sincerely is this, “Father, please accept me as I am, with all of my idiosyncrasies and foibles. Help me to grow from my mistakes and take my imperfections so that I might be of maximum service to you and others.”

Trust God – Oops! Who inserted that platitude? Can we honestly say, “Everything is happening perfectly,” when the world appears to be going to hell in a hand basket? Despite poverty, illness, and global anxiety we can truly begin looking for the good in any situation that life hands us. So, why add to the angst? When we look for good, we always find it. Yes, so much good can come from so much that is bad. In that respect, everything truly is happening perfectly. Besides God really can use all things for good. So when things seem very difficult in your life or in the world, I just keep reassuring myself that God is in control, that the Chief Architect has not only created the world but maintains it as well. I have a friend who likes to say, “When the King is on the throne, I don’t have to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders.”

Get Involved – The fact that God is in control does not negate my responsibility to get involved. Positive action has an amazing effect on our psyche. As we take action, we begin to feel more powerful and our fear about the future decreases considerably. I like to think to myself, “My life has purpose and I will do whatever I can to improve my small corner of the universe.” Or in the words of Rabbi Tarfon, “It is not for you to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.”

It is not easy to stay in this strange and mysterious place called calm. Outside its oddly luminous confines are dark clouds that need to be dealt with. I have found that when I cede control over creation to the Creator, I can regain control of my own inner sanctum, and even make a difference in the small corner of the world that I co-habit. And I don’t have to do it alone. It takes a lot of work for me to stay in a place called Calm, and I am not sure I like it. But it is certainly safer than the storm.

Where Do We Find Real Joy?

Parashat Shemini, Leviticus 9:1–11:47

Rabbi Rich Nichol, Congregation Ruach Israel, Needham, MA

I know it’s still Pesach, but looking ahead to the end of mandatory matzah munching, let me ask you a question: How do you feel about almond croissants? I will tell you the truth: I love them and probably indulge too often. But, that moment of sitting with a cup of good coffee accompanied by that glazed, nut-encrusted treasure . . . is a joy.

Unless . . . unless . . . the almond paste is missing! If it still is, after I take two exploratory bites without finding a hint of almond paste, my joy disappears. I turn to aggressive munching, like a frantic prospector, searching for the gooey gold, the sweet soul of the pastry. And if I don’t find that mother lode by the second-to-last bite, my joy evaporates further into disappointment. “A barren, soulless almond croissant! How capricious can the universe be?”

The silly mood lasts for a total of one or two minutes. Then, outside the bakery I hop on my trusty bicycle, begin riding, and feeling the bracing New England air, I’m back to my more usual emotional set point.

But, oh, how we live for moments of joy! Let’s talk about this week’s Torah portion. Let’s discuss the most powerful source of genuine joy, not the momentary almond croissant kind, but the kind God would have us all experience every day.

We begin with a midrash, a rabbinic story about Moses’ brother Aaron following the golden calf incident. We read in Leviticus 9:7 that Moses summoned his brother Aaron the Kohen at a critical moment when it was time to institute patterns of regular worship among our people Israel: 

Then Moses said to Aaron, “Come to the altar and sacrifice your sin offering and your burnt offering to purify yourself and the people. Then present the offerings of the people to purify them, making them right with the Lord, just as he has commanded.”

 The commentary goes like this:

 There is a tradition that Aaron had to be urged to bring his purification offering, a calf, because he was embarrassed. It reminded him of his role in the fashioning of the golden calf. Moses, however, assured him, “Your sin has been forgiven because you were ashamed.” (Etz Chaim Torah and Commentary, 631)

But what could this incident possibly have to do with joy? I suggest that real joy—not the “croissant” kind—is rooted in relationship. Here we have brother Aaron being ordered by Moses, the family’s spiritual giant, to begin his sacred work by offering a calf, the same kind of animal that occasioned Aaron’s profound shame. “I fouled up so badly by making the golden calf! How can I possibly serve God, my people Am Yisrael, and my fabulous brother by offering this animal?”

 In the midrash, Moses senses reluctant Aaron’s immobilizing shame and essentially says, “Don’t worry, brother. What is past is past. You’ve been forgiven by Hashem, by me and by your people. Now, let’s get to the work at hand!”

 If you were Aaron, how would you have felt after hearing these reassuring words? I want to suggest you would have felt joy! Let’s take a closer look.

Real joy arises out of real relationships. Aaron’s shame could only be resolved in relationship. He loved and trusted his brother. Moses’ words were probably reinforced by a comforting hand on his shoulder, a genuine smile, and a deep, reassuring gaze. These made all the difference. Feelings of guilt, alienation and inadequacy were replaced by true joy.

What can we learn from this poignant interpretation of an encounter between Moses and Aaron?

When we Messianic Jews look into the face of Yeshua, what do we see? God’s Ruach can bring images to our sanctified imaginations of what he looked like and how he spoke during his sojourn among Am Yisrael, the people of Israel, two thousand years ago. As he looks at you what do you see? I will tell you what I see. I see an image of love mixed with a profound understanding of the complexities of the human condition. I see acceptance, despite my hidden and obvious faults; I sense his beckoning me to a higher kind of life. That kind gaze, though so accepting of me, simultaneously bears the intimation of a grandeur that can bring the entire universe to its knees in pure adoration.

Again, what do you see when you imagine Messiah?

During this period of the Counting of the Omer our UMJC community has been called to shape our thoughts and prayers in terms of the Fruits of the Spirit as catalogued by Rav Shaul in Galatians 5:22–23. I will paraphrase the verse in traditional Jewish terms:

But the fruit of the Ruach is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against these “middot”—these holy qualities of character—there is no prohibition.

Clearly, all of these character-defining qualities are important. But notice the word order. First, love, of course. But, what follows immediately after? Joy! 

As we travel together as a UMJC community toward Shavuot let’s ask God to grant us greater reserves of joy—not the momentary “almond croissant” kind, but the joy which flows from ever-deepening relationships with him and with people in our congregations and families. Of course, there are the truly toxic people whom we must avoid. But with many in our spheres of life, joy awaits us if we choose to go deeper in helpfulness, vulnerability, and trust

We thank God for the opportunities to grow in character, the fruits of the Spirit. Now is the time to choose . . . joy!