Weekly Torah Commentaries (UMJC - Union Of Messianic Jewish Congregations)

Hannah is a barren woman stuck in a deeply dysfunctional marriage. Her sister-wife, Pninah, has produced many sons and daughters, and never misses an opportunity to lord it over her. Her husband, Elkanah, thinks his own mercurial affections should provide sufficient comfort to his depressed and angry wife.

We’ve entered a new year and a new round of Torah readings—a good time to recalibrate our lives. But what measure can we use to recalibrate? I can’t think of a better measure than the account of creation in the opening chapters of the Torah.

In this week’s parasha, God commands Noah to build an ark for his family and for all the land animals to avoid the coming destruction of the flood. Water in the Torah is often a symbol of the forces of chaos. The ark became Noah’s safe haven from the raging waters of chaos, storm, and sin. 

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Our Messiah warned us, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Readers might think this implies that the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees is somehow defective or inferior, but Messiah Yeshua is probably saying the opposite.

Sarah has brought Hagar, and Egyptian concubine, into Avraham’s bed. She becomes pregnant, and Sarah suddenly regrets this rash and dysfunctional choice. Sarah blames Avraham, and quarrels with him over this inconvenient woman. Avraham turns Hagar back over to Sarah, and Sarah afflicts Hagar, causing her to run away into the wilderness. She runs very far south, practically to the border of modern Egypt. An angel of the Lord meets her at a well, and instructs her to return to her abusive mistress, for God will make a great nation from the son in her womb – Ishmael.

In Parashat Vayishlach, we continue to follow the stories of the mothers and the fathers of Israel. Unfortunately, the women in this story are often abused by powerful men. The men sometimes seem to get away with their behavior in the short term, but the consequences of their actions are seen for generations.

A midrash says there was not just one Hanukkah but actually seven. I propose to you that there are in fact nine Hanukkahs, not seven. We are the eighth Hanukkah of light. All of us are called to dedicate ourselves to Hashem. The ninth Hanukkah of light is the Hanukkah of Messiah Yeshua.

Last week we explored the idea of ourselves as the eighth candle of the Hanukkah menorah and Yeshua as the ninth; the one who lights us with his passion and power. He calls us to a life of dedication to Torah. This week we will continue with two more ways we can be Hanukkahs of Light.

This week, as we are reading Parashat Vayechi (“And he lived”), the United States is honoring the memory of President Jimmy Carter, who passed away on January 5. In Israel the country mourns hostage Youssef al-Zidayne, whose body was discovered in a Gaza tunnel on January 8, along with evidence that his son Hamza was also dead.

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

During the Passover Seder we drink four cups of wine. This is a very old tradition dating back to the Mishnah, and our Sages over the centuries have given various reasons why there are four cups. But there is also a fifth cup, which we don’t drink.

It’s still mid-winter in most of the world, but our Torah readings this week and last remind us that Passover is not far off.  This week’s reading includes the verses underlying the section in the Haggadah that opens, The Torah speaks of four sons—one wise, one wicked, one simple, and one who does not know how to ask.

When the Israelites left Egypt they did not have a choice about their route. They moved according to the Lord’s plan. We can learn much that is applicable to our own life journey from the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion.

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

What happens when God shows up? The book of Exodus is a powerful series of answers to this question. This week’s parasha, Terumah, describes the various furnishings of the Tabernacle, prompting another tantalizing question: What happens when God moves in next door?

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

Many years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was earnestly seeking God’s will for my vocation. I agonized in prayer for weeks. I can remember praying about this as I was driving to my mother’s house one Sunday and God said to me, undeniably, “Do what you want!”

Yitzchak, already a young man, understood what was happening, even though he never heard the initial command: “Take now your son, your only son, the beloved one, Isaac, and go for yourself (Lech Lecha) to the land of Moriah, and offer up the gift that goes up there, on one of the mountains that I will show you” (Gen 22:2).

Passover is above all a story, an appeal to the imagination and to memory. We don’t just think and talk about Passover, but we picture and reenact and memorialize it. Ironically, one of the advantages of our current COVID shutdown is that he helps us imagine the “night of watching” in Egypt.

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

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

There are few lines of Scripture more uncompromising than the opening verses of K’doshim: “You are to be holy as I the Lord your God am holy” (19:2). Is this truly possible? Most of us would probably settle for “faithful,” or perhaps, “devout.” But holy?

In the past most of “civilized” society dealt with others’ handicaps by turning a blind eye. At best, the disabled were treated with dismissive sympathies and self-congratulatory charity; at worst they were often blamed for their disabilities and pushed to the margins of society. Only recently has the conversation turned toward treating those with disabilities as fully enfranchised members of society.

Our parasha starts off by explaining the year of the yovel, sometimes translated as Jubilee, but I like the way Everett Fox renders it: Homebringing. God’s realm is holy and good, and Shabbat, Yom Kippur, the Jubilee, the Tabernacle, the Messiah, these are all part of his plan for the holy realm to intercept the earth, as it was in Eden.

In the wilderness God speaks. Torah is teaching us that it is in places of uncertainty, challenge, and temptation that we find God. The uncertainty we’re facing today can become the source of new understanding and nearness to God.

On exhibit in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem are artifacts from the excavation of a burial plot from the end of the First Temple period. Among the exhibit is a small thin silver plaque the size of a thumb. Inscribed on it in Hebrew is the Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing we still recite today.

When daring to speak or think of the God of all that is or ever could be, it pays to be radically humble, a capacity which is itself beyond our grasp. But let’s at least realize that this radical humility is a destination toward which we should point ourselves, like Abraham leaving the idolatry of his father’s ways and his comfortable homeland for a yet undiscovered country.

A good report is not of any less value if our community rejects it, or if we suffer physical threats on account of it. Caleb and Joshua’s good report was based on long-term trusting.

Korach and his allies can be cast as bad dudes who cause trouble—for whatever reason—and are dealt with. A careful reading of the story, however, leaves questions. And our tradition is all about careful readings—and questions!

In this week’s parasha we meet the pagan prophet Bil’am, hired by Balak, king of Moab, to come and curse Israel. But Bil’am warns Balak’s messengers who come to hire him that no matter how much they pay him, he can only say what Adonai puts in his mouth.

When I volunteered to prepare a study on this week’s Torah portion, I was thinking about Pinchas’ zeal for the honor and holiness of Hashem, or maybe about the covenant of shalom that Hashem would establish with Pinchas and his descendants forever. As I sat down to begin writing, however, the Ruach took me in an entirely different direction.

Life is a journey! Much like a train ride, life’s journey has stops along the way, but when the whistle blows, we move forward toward our destination. The Tanakh records many journeys. For example, Abraham journeyed to a land Adonai showed him, and B’nei Israel, the children of Israel, journeyed from Egypt to the land of promise.

Many of us who are parents know that we have to repeat things a lot. This is summed up in the all-too-familiar question, “How many times have I told you that?!” It can become frustrating and make you feel like your children aren’t listening. Then there’s the follow up question, “How many times do I have to say this until you get it?!”

There is an interesting connection of our parasha with Jacob. Ekev (ayin-qof-vav) is also part of Jacob’s name. His name more accurately means “May he (God) be at your heels,” as in your “defending rear guard.”

The Bible calls us to be perfectionists. Its understanding of perfectionism, however, is quite different from that of the world in which we live. In the Bible, a perfectionist is one who walks blamelessly or wholeheartedly before Hashem.

This week’s parasha, Ki Tetse, begins, “When you go to war against your enemies.” The realities and assumptions of the ancient world are expressed in this statement from God by the mouth of Moses. Notice it says “when” and not “if.”

In August of 1967, The Young Rascals recorded their fourth Top Ten hit, How Can I Be Sure? The chorus echoes in our thoughts as we traverse the month of Elul in preparation for the Days of Awe. “How can I be sure, in a world that’s constantly changing? / How can I be sure, where I stand with you?”

The great Rabbi Nachman of Breslov put it this way: “The world is a narrow bridge and the important thing is to not be afraid.” Afraid of what? Afraid of falling off onto one side, or one extreme, or the other.

Now that my title got your attention, I’ll let you know this message isn’t about non-binary gender identity. Instead, it’s about looking beyond the usual binary reading of Isaac and Ishmael to bring out a dimension of the story that’s of special importance to us, particularly as we approach the Days of Awe.

When I teach or counsel about forgiveness, this is a question I hear more than any other: How do I forgive myself? I’ve searched the Scriptures for verses on forgiving yourself and can’t find any. You can repent (with God’s help) and you can receive God’s forgiveness, but you can’t forgive yourself. And realizing this fact can be liberating, an essential step in the right direction.

Every person is made in the image of God, and therefore to be treated with respect and dignity. This claim might sound obvious, or even a bit sentimental, but we need to hear it afresh amidst current views like these: “The human race is just a chemical scum on a moderate-size planet . . . just a ripple within the cosmic data flow.”

As I read this week’s parasha, I am reminded that our great problems in the world today are not new. They are the same ones as in ancient times, recycled into our current generation. Our parasha opens with a view of human life from over 4,000 years ago: “The earth was corrupt in its relation to God and was full of wanton violence.”

Jews, Christians, and Muslims as well call ourselves “children of Avraham.” And in the Christian and Messianic Jewish tradition, when we call ourselves children of Avraham, we usually focus on having the same kind of faith as Avraham. But do we have that kind of faith?

Our world is perhaps more divided today than it’s ever been. But when we encounter people we presume to be far from God, we might do well to remember the lessons of Abraham and Abimelech, and the wisdom of Paul among the Athenians. “Every way of a man is right in his own eyes, but the Lord weighs the heart.”

This week’s portion, entitled Chayei Sarah, which literally means the life of Sarah, chronicles the matriarch’s death and burial, and her husband’s contemplative mourning. It begins, though, with a one-sentence retrospective of her life. “Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years: the years of Sarah’s life.”

This week’s Torah portion presents a most difficult dilemma: Are there situations in life where it is acceptable to be dishonest and deceptive? Oy vey iz mir . . . Let’s dive into this parasha a bit and see what we can come up with.

Dear Leah, It humbles me now to think of how I acted when we were young. I was desperate and childless, and children are the blessing of God and the hope of our inheritance. I pleaded with Jacob, our husband, for a child.

Words have power for good and ill; words stick and their absence sticks too. The power of words gives us an opportunity to create good amidst the confusion, chaos, and anxiety of the days we’re living in.

Nachmanides says there are two types of miracles; Nes Nigleh, the obvious miracle, and Nes Nistar, the hidden miracle. Our job is to constantly seek the hidden miracles in life.

Justice in our tradition is not preoccupied with crime and punishment, but is focused on shalom, restoration, and wholeness, and finds its ultimate embodiment in Yeshua, who like Judah, was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of restoration, regardless of whether it was fair.

Children don’t miss a beat. They observe things about us we don’t see in ourselves, in the process being imprinted with both the good and the bad. This is unavoidable. And yes, this can be troubling. This week’s parasha reminds us all is not lost.

If you think about it, it’s almost obvious: patterns of behavior become harder to change over time. This implies that those first actions, even if small, have outsized importance to one’s character. Maybe when Moses first noticed the Egyptian taskmaster beating an Israelite slave, the future hung in the balance as he decided what to do . . . but the next time at the well, it was a little easier to make that decision.

Fear makes for bad politics. Just ask the folks who lived through Pharaoh’s reign in the days of the Exodus. As our story opened in last week’s parasha, Pharaoh was stoking fears about a peaceful minority group thriving among the Egyptians: “Behold, the people of Israel are too many and too mighty for us. . . .” .

How natural for all Jews to begin the Seder with the strange declaration, “This is the bread of poverty,” followed by the seemingly contrary, yet open, invitation for “all who are hungry to come and eat.” It is not the physical act of eating that draws us together; rather it is the great sense of solidarity and empathy that we each crave.

I remember the first time I saw a smartphone. Naively, I thought I was looking at an instrument of peace and enlightenment. With the Internet in everyone’s pocket, I thought that having more and better information would inspire us all to make better choices and to treat one another better. Clearly, I was mistaken. Why didn’t we improve? What were we missing?

Though our contemporary society might have a passion for ethics, without an understanding of the social dimension of human life—that we are not simply individuals, but that our families, communities, and nation make up part of our core identities—we have lost a key ingredient for making ethics comprehensible.

One of the most intriguing places my wife and I have experienced in Israel is David Ben Gurion’s home in Tel Aviv. The square brick building is not only plain outside; its first floor has sparse, basic furnishings with few touches of color. It almost disdains luxury. But then you reach the second floor and feel you’ve entered the great man’s inner sanctum, his desk, his papers. You sense his presence . . .

Esther has been an inspiring figure in Judaism for centuries. Children dress as her on the festival of Purim and it’s even become traditional to name baby girls born near Purim Esther after the heroine of the story. But compared to other figures in the Bible, is Esther really a good Jewish role model?

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

Shalom, true peace, is not the absence of conflict, disagreement, or even pain; it is knowing that we do not face these challenges alone, and that the one who shares them with us adds his strength to our weakness, enabling us to endure—even if the challenges lead “through the valley of the shadow of death” (Psalm 23:4).

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

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

The lesson for us and for our day is clear. A fantastic leader will be one who models obedience to God’s word, diligence in his service, and an orientation toward being a blessing to his people. A foolish leader will be impressed by his own station and will even seek to manipulate the presence of God for his own purposes and satisfaction.

It is incumbent that when one sees an afflicted person that he also sees him as a whole person. The kohanim or priests were in a sense the “doctors of the soul.” This is the role of a kohen, to restore the person to wholeness—to have the imagination to see beyond a person’s present brokenness, and to recognize his or her own power to heal.

Being holy can be summed up in the command to love your neighbor and the alien (stranger, foreigner) as yourself. Being holy means being set apart, being distinct. It means having the courage to be different than the world around us.

How can we meet God’s standards? How are we to respond to a scriptural reality in which the penalty for transgressions is often a painful and gruesome death, and the result of impurity is exile? When we mess up, are we done? Are we finished? Is that what it means to follow God?

When things threaten to drift out of control, we may sometimes need to paddle harder, or we may need to recognize this anxious moment as an opportunity to trust God more deeply.

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

A man becomes suspicious that his wife has been cheating on him. He has no proof, only his feelings of jealousy. So, the husband publicly accuses his wife of adultery and brings her to the temple to perform a ritual to prove her guilt.

When walking by faith, we are not guaranteed the knowledge of the “whats and whys” of our walk. Like Israel, we may not know how long that walk might be or what its various stops or detours might be like. We can have our hopes or ideas, but in all things, we must trust in Hashem.

The fears, horrors, and insecurities of our childhoods do not disappear with time, as we might imagine, but rather remain buried deep in our psyche only to reemerge in more sophisticated expressions. Unless we slay, shrink, or unmask the monsters and giants of our past, they make a home next to our “child within.”

Everyone knows that simply looking at something cannot cure a deadly snakebite. What healed the Israelites was the power of God, through their display of faith in looking at the serpent raised up by Moses. It’s a testament to God’s character that, despite the lack of faith shown by the Israelites again and again, once they repented, he gave them a means to display faith in him once more, and by it, be saved from certain death.

Like a play within a play, the episode with Balaam confronts us with a truly paradoxical figure: a God-fearer who could prophetically proclaim the rise of Israel but dies merely a soothsayer, almost as a passing footnote.

The words of Jeremiah the prophet draw our attention beyond our undeniable failures as a people to our equally undeniable foundation as a people chosen and loved by God. And it’s particularly striking that the Lord is speaking here specifically to Jerusalem.

The concept of individualism tempered by participation in the collective whole has been challenged this past year, as the emphasis on individuals and their rights seems to have skyrocketed. The problem is that individualism apart from participation in the collective whole leads to chaos.

If you love someone, honor them, even at your own expense. Get in the habit of safeguarding others’ honor and reputation. The starting point for this is being in touch with your own infinite value; only one who is secure in their place, who has “reputation to give,” as it were, is able to guard others’ honor generously.

For the Jewish people, summer brings the anniversary of our greatest national trauma. On Tisha B’Av, we don't simply mourn the loss of a building—we grieve the pain of divine abandonment. As Lamentations (the megillah or scroll customarily read on Tisha B'Av) asks: “Eicha?” or “How?—how could all this happen?”

I’ve been dialoguing with a Jewish friend of mine who is reading through the Torah and asking me questions. Recently, he asked me something I’ve heard other folks ask as well, “What does it mean that the Jewish people are chosen? Isn’t that kind of self-centered?”

As Israel stood listening to Moshe at the edge of the Promised Land, they were still a people whose greatest patriarchs had been nomads buried in a distant cave bought from strangers. So it’s unlikely they could have imagined a future temple of soaring dimensions to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

In the darkest hours we must hold on to the light of promise. That which we choose to ignore maintains power over us. Yeshua’s suffering liberates us from the power of death, and his final words give us the authority together to live life with hope.

In a day of shifting loyalties and unstable commitments, the Lord’s declaration shines out like a beacon: “The mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed.” It’s an unshakable promise that empowers us to make and keep our promises to those around us and those we love.

The seven weeks of consolation or comfort lead us out from summer’s heat and into the cool of autumn. They take us from the torment of Tisha B’Av to the joy and hope of Rosh Hashanah, a day that not only celebrates the New Year, but is also associated through Jewish tradition with God’s kingship ( malchiyot).

At the great turning-point of Moses’ life—when God really needed to get his attention—he chose to speak to Moses from out of a thorn-bush of all places. Why not from the wide blue sky, or the starry heavens at night, out there in the wilderness? Or why not from the mountain top, or at least from some big, impressive tree? But a thorn-bush?

Let’s practice holiness, separated from the world, while from a position of strength we exist in the world, exhibiting the love of God to those who are hurting, being the hands and feet of God to those in need, and being the voice of hope and reason in a time that is rife with chaos and confusion.

No, we are not isolated from the brokenness of the world. It is our brokenness. In the words of our tradition, “We are not so brazen-faced and stiff-necked as to say before you, we are righteous and have not sinned; rather, we and our ancestors have sinned.”

My treasured memories of spending time in Jerusalem at Sukkot always bring to mind those inspiring commands from D’varim/Deuteronomy: “Rejoice at your festival. . . . Adonai your God will bless you . . . so you are to be full of joy.”

Shelter is a primal human need, along with food and clean water and air to breathe. But beyond our primitive need of shelter, we might find ourselves yearning for a deeper shelter, which our observance of Sukkot hints at.

Why does the inspired writer force us at the outset of the human journey to confront such a violent accounting of sibling rivalry? I believe that the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in the fourth chapter of B’reisheet.

The Lord himself is our Ark, our vehicle, and our hope. Remember, he has power over the waters of chaos. His life-giving Ruach hovered over the waters in Creation; his Ruach blew back the waters so that Noah could leave the ark; and his Ruach split the waters so that Israel could go through the Red Sea.

Our ancestor Abraham was not particularly intent on playing it safe. When the situation called for it, he took great risks, and he reaped great rewards, as we see in this week’s parashah: “After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision: ‘Fear not, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.’”

People are often shocked and a bit unsettled when they learn that there is a long Jewish tradition of arguing with God. It somehow seems disrespectful to challenge the Creator of the Universe; after all, who are we to argue?

Yeshua initiated his students into this mission by taking on the role and dress of a servant (John 13). Therefore let us serve, not by looking for the grandiose or inspiring roles, not with an expectation that we know how the future will unfold, but by accomplishing what stands before us.

We want to be the ones who start something new and fresh or see what was started reach its completion, for we see this as the source of our own significance. But isn’t it completely possible to simply be a vessel to carry someone or something else a step forward?

We often speak of Yeshua as the “Perfect Isaac,” the one to whom Isaac and his sacrifice point forward. We also speak of Yeshua as the prophet greater than Moshe, as the Living Torah, and as the Perfect Passover Lamb. But I propose that we can also think of Yeshua as the Perfect Jacob.

Few of us have ever been aware of encountering the malakhim—those divine servants and agents of God who surround his throne and do his bidding. But others, believers like Ya’akov (Jacob), seem to experience them everywhere.

Just as we can look to Joseph’s story and his character for shadows of the Messiah to come, we have Messiah Yeshua to look to when it comes to repairing the impact and the legacy of sin. Ultimately, what lies at the heart of this whole discussion is rescue.

Who can you trust these days? As a rabbi and counselor I talk with people every day who’ve been let down, disappointed, or even betrayed by others. On the public level, trust is rapidly eroding everywhere. Who is credible in our age of distrust?

It has been said that blood is thicker than water. This proverbial wisdom would suggest that family ties, though frequently tried, are stronger than any other relational bonds. After all, no judge would allow the sibling of a defendant to sit on the jury empowered to impartially try him or her.

Through the literary structure, techniques, and conventions in Vayechi, we see how the end of a matter can be better than the beginning. Genesis, however, is not the end of the matter; it is just the beginning.