One Light to Rule Them All

Every night this week, we lit candles. Each night the light grows brighter and we remember the miracles and good works God has done.

A large fee waived.

A friend's brother, missing in a flooding area, found.

A friend's mother released to go home to heaven.

A child making a big choice for her future.

The world around us is a mess, but God's light shines in the darkness.

Last Sunday, we spun the dreidel, a simple little game of chance whose purpose is to remind us that "A Great Miracle Happened There." We ate jelly donuts and chocolate coins and thanked God for keeping us alive, sustaining us, and allowing us to reach this season.

For me, Hannukah has been a light-hearted holiday. It is a minor holiday in the Jewish year and does not carry the burden of atonement or judgment. It is simply a time to recognize light in darkness, victory over oppression, and the possibility of miracles.I

 was interested to note that Jesus celebrated Hannukah. I was hoping he used the day to say, "I am the light of the world," or tell the story of the unprepared virgins. Instead he said, "I am God's Son. I have been set apart." This brings to mind that Hannukah is about dedication, or making the temple holy again. Jesus is saying he is the temple AND he is already holy. No need to rededicate something that was never defiled.

Hannukah is all about victory, deliverance, healing, miracles, holiness, and ressurection. Sounds familiar to me. The Jews were looking for someone to rise up and overthrow their Roman oppressors, like the Macabees had done to the Syrians. Jesus had plans to overthrow a much greater oppressor.

I don't know if there's any symbolism intended in this or not, but when lighting the candles of Hannukah, there is one candle set aside to light the others. It stands higher than the other lights and burns for all 8 nights. I picture Jesus as this candle. He is the the constant, the light source, the one who turns us all into lights in the world.

This week's Torah Portion:

Genesis 41:1-44:17

Zechariah 2:14-4:7

John 2:12-4:42

Photo credit: slgckgc via VisualHunt / CC BY

Lighting the Lights

And now, a break from the regularly scheduled Torah readings in order to lay some groundwork for the next feast. Hanukkah is not an Old Testament Feast, not one of the holidays set up by God in his rhythm of how the year progresses for his chosen people. But it IS a biblical feast in the sense that Jesus, as a cultural Jew, celebrated Hanukkah. And if it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me. This year, since we're traveling over Christmas, we're leaving the Christmas lights tucked away and pulling out the Hanukkah menorah to light instead.

The Feast of Dedication begins tomorrow at dark. As we count down to the darkest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere), we celebrate a violent victory with candles, games, songs, and (best of all) fried food and jelly donuts.

After their exile in Babylon, the Jews returned tot he promised land and set up a fairly peaceful, fairly prosperous society. They remembered the laws and commandments God had set forth and added structure to them to help keep them on track. They kept the first commandment, to worship only God, and the second, to not build or worship idols, despite the fact that all the cultures around the worshipped a pantheon of gods.

Enter the Greeks, stage right. This empire valued beauty, brains, and brawn. The Greeks believed in a whole family of gods with lives and stories as complicated as a soap opera. The Greeks believed in spreading their culture wherever they went. They were the cool kids of the 2nd century B.C.

In 175 B.C. Antiochus IV became king of Syria. (There's that pesky piece of real estate again!) Antiochus decided that all Jews should become Greeks. Some Jews jumped right on board, adopting the fashion and the language, and adopting Greek names. Most, though, didn't convert quickly enough for the Syrian king's taste. He sent his soldiers out to burn Jewish scrolls and kill anyone who would not worship Zeus, the head of the Greek pantheon of gods. Antiochus went so far as to build an altar to Zeus in the Jewish temple in Jerusalem and have a pig sacrificed on it.

Several years into this "scrubbing" of Jewish thought and practice, Syrian soldiers tried to use an old Jewish priest named Mattathias to sway the tide of Jewish thought. If they could get this priest and his sons to bow down to Zeus, surely the rest of the nation would follow. They didn't expect resistance from this elderly priest, but then, they didn't know him. He wasn't about to bow down to any god but the one True God, and he certainly wasn't going to kill a pig to eat it (another of their bright ideas).

When one of the members of his mountain village stepped up to bow before the altar to Zeus, Mattathias flew into a rage. He killed the traitor and a soldier nearby. He tore down the altar to Zeus, then fled with his sons and anyone who would follow them into the mountains. There, this ragtag group that called themselves the Maccabees (the Hammers) staged a revolt. Armed with only sticks, rocks, and farm tools, they waged war against the Syrian army and their modern warfare supplies and tactics. In battle after battle, the Maccabeeans sacked the Syrians. The Jews had to win. They had more to lose.

They also had the Spirit of Almighty God raging inside them.

It took 2 years, but the Hammers sent the Syrians packing and won the right to worship who and where and how they wanted, which was as God commanded. Legend says that when they marched into Jerusalem as victors, though, they found themselves grieving instead of celebrating. Their beloved temple had been trashed, their books and candlesticks stolen. They needed to cleanse and rededicate the temple--and fast. And it would take eight days for them to make ritually clean, kosher olive oil for the task. "Luckily" they found a flask of oil with only enough to light the menorah for one night. They needed enough for eight nights, but this was all they had and they didn't want to wait. They lit the lights that first night, and then the second and third. Miraculously, the one drop of oil lasted the whole week.

Feast of Dedication. Festival of Lights. Hanukkah is a celebration of God's miracles. It's a chance for me to watch for miracles small and large in my own life and to remember that the God who worked miracles for his people back then is the same God I worship today.

Jesus celebrated Hanukkah in John 10. I'm going to visit that passage this week as we light the candles and celebrate miracles around our own table. For now, I plan to start jotting down the miracles I see around me on the white board above our dining table. I expect to be surprised.

This week's Torah portion:
Genesis 37:1-40:23
Amos 2:6-3:8
John 2:13-4:42

Photo credit: nonnygoats via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND

On Stairways and Mandrakes and Worshiping God

I started this week's reading back at Harran, on the border of modern day Turkey and Syria. This little strip of land has a habit of making history, doesn't it? Here Jacob laid down to rest on his flight from his homeland to his uncle's place (and his mom's hometown).

I think of Joseph as the dreamer of dreams, but it seems his dad had dreams of his own. The image of Jacob's ladder, of a stairway leading to heaven with angels going up and down it, rings in our collective consciousness. Jacob's ladder--it's been used to describe the beams of light slicing through the clouds, a child's toy of blocks and ribbons, electrical rods with a spark dancing between them, and a torturous exercise machine

In that place, in that time, a common monument was the ziggurat, a huge rectangular structure with stairs leading up its face toward heaven. At the top of the ziggurat was probably a shrine, dedicated to the worship of the moon goddess. The parallel wouldn't be lost on Jacob, who saw a ladder that went much higher than a building, the a place much safer than a shrine.

The symbol also was not lost on Jesus, who told Nathaniel, "You will see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending on the son of Man." There are so many layers to this story of Jacob as the father of nations, dreaming of Jesus, the savior of nations...of the Lord standing at the top of the staircase making promises to Jacob, and of Jesus being the staircase that leads Jacob and his people to heaven... Jacob knew when he woke up that he was in a special place, so special, he took the stone he'd used as a pillow (ouch), turned it on end, and left it as a pillar, a witness that what had happened there.

Jacob wasn't the only one dreaming in this story, either. Laban had his own dreams. Lest I think dreams are a revelation from God to his faithful followers, I keep reading to see that Laban practiced divination and worshiped his own gods. Besides, he was a greedy sneak and a liar, to put it mildly.

Jacob's marital relations with his two wives and their servants read like a soap opera. It was a household of jealousy and intrigue, laced with moments of triumph and vengeance.

Here's a story that popped out to me, one I never heard in Sunday school--the story of the mandrakes.

These are not the gnarly little plants that you have to get potted while they're babies so they don't kill you when they attack you. They're an herbal medicine and they're meant to cure infertility. Leah's son Levi found some and brought them to his mother like a good son would do. I can just hear it.

LEVI: "Here, Mommy. I brought you some roots that will help you have another baby."
LEAH: "Thank you, darling. I'll brew them up right away."
RACHEL: (tapping on door) "Did I hear someone say they've got mandrakes? I've been dying for some mandrake tea. Can I have some?"
LEAH: "Well, I don't know..."
RACHEL: "I'll let Jacob spend the night with you."
LEAH to LEVI: "You heard her. Give her the mandrakes."

I guess in a way, the mandrakes did help Leah get pregnant.

The story goes on to tell of how Jacob controlled the color the sheep and goats he bred would be based on what color sticks they looked at while drinking water, how Rachel stole the family idols and said she was on her period so she wouldn't have to get off her camel and reveal the stolen idols. It's a complicated story. There's lying, trickery, idols, hard work and dedication, true love, rivalry, jockeying for power, and more intrigue than an adventure movie.

With all the themes it dances around, the one I keep coming back to is the fact that Jacob somehow worshiped the one true God while everyone around him had the whole pantheon as a backup plan. When we lived in Africa, I wrestled with how to treat the voodoo priestess who sold me sugar, the men in the voodoo market who called out to me as I walked between their stalls of dried animal parts and amulets, the Christian friend who consulted the witchdoctor when her child was sick. But I never wanted to take part in any of their rituals or to pay homage to their gods.

Now, back in suburban American, the thought of having other gods is much more subtle. We don't typically bow down to or feed actual idols, though we do have our own gods set up on TV stands in a prominent place in our living rooms or tucked into our wallets. Lately, though, I actually found myself bowing down in front of a statue of Buddha in a yoga class. I had to struggle through whether to keep going to class if Buddha was going to be sitting in front of me. My teacher has graciously agreed to leave Buddha tucked in his closet on the mornings I am there, though I'm sure she doesn't understand my objection. The last thing I want to do is close a door on relationships because I am too judgy. On the other hand, I have to live with myself and doing the child's pose in front of sitting Buddha is too reminiscent of the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to be comfortable.

What else do I bow down in front of without thinking about it? What else consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my time? I have my list, some parts of which are easy to identify, others of which I'd rather not acknowledge to myself much less in public. Like Rachel sitting on her camel, using her time of the month as an excuse, I justify my habits and vices as normal expressions of my culture. And, for some reason, I'm resistant to even name them much less work on them.

God convicts at the most inconvenient times. Thanks a lot, God. Thanks a lot.

This Week's Torah Portion:
Genesis 32:3-36:43
Hosea 11:7-12:12; Obadiah 1:1-21
John 1:19-21

Photo credit: Giorgio Samorini via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-SA

Laughter

It amazes me how different aspects of life layer on top of each other, intersecting, overlapping, events and ideas being colored by other events and ideas. I wrote about Isaac yesterday, about how his story is an in between story. Then I sat in Bible class and then church this morning and heard the story of Isaac in a completely different light.

If you were at my church, you probably didn't hear anything about Isaac this morning. The texts came out of Nehemiah and Philippians, not Genesis. And if you sat by me (Andrea), I'm sorry I was so squirmy, but I had synapses firing on so many levels, my mind was abuzz.

What I missed in the story of Isaac was the laughter.

His mother laughed when she heard the promise he would be born, but that doesn't explain why Isaac was named "He Laughs." If he was named for his mother's lack of trust, he would have been named "She Laughs" or "She Didn't Believe." But Isaac's name was Laughter.

In Nehemiah this morning, we looked at a people so serious about restoring their relationship with God that they spent weeks in confession, study of scripture, and public mourning. Their mourning did not end in shame or sadness, though, but in celebration and joy. I invite you read my friend's blogpost about joy in the face of mercy here. As Kristy says, "Grace is accepting the consequences and then releasing them to the wind."

For the sermon, we turned to Philippians 4. The subject was giving--do we use our money for happiness or for joy? What I heard was that joy--capital JOY--always happens in relation to others, whether the people we are with or the God we serve.

That's what was missing in the story I told yesterday, the story bubbling beneath the story. Isaac's entire story is told in relation to his parents, his children, his wife, his neighbors. It is told, especially, in relation to his God. In his story, we catch glimpses of the story of his life. He went to a field to meditate. He received God's promise. His neighbors noticed that God was on his side. He sought peace.

Underneath the story of the sacrificial child, the father of twins, the foolish old man, runs a story of laughter and joy.

In this week that is all about giving thanks to God for his bountiful blessings, I pray you will seek connections with people and with God and that you will find JOY and LAUGHTER, no matter what your circumstances. I will be aiming for the same in myself.

Photo credit: Arnett Gill via VisualHunt / CC BY-NC-ND

Sandwich Generation

Reading the Torah portion this week on the life of Isaac, I couldn't help thinking how different his story is than that of his father and his son. Abraham was specially chosen to be the father of nations, the one through whom God's chosen people--and, eventually, God's own son--would come. Abraham received the promise and took part in the covenant. Jacob (as we'll see next week) had his own adventures. But Isaac? Isaac is the middle child of the patriachs, All the stories we have of him tell about him in relation to someone else. He's one in the list, but what do we know about him, really?

Birth

The story of Isaac's birth is really the story of his parents. But isn't that how it is with all of us? Isaac's birth is a tale of faith and doubt, of laughter and tears, of Abraham and Sarah. Isaac, the promised child, is incidental in the narrative, more a chess piece in a strategy game than a character in his own right.

Sacrifice

In the very disturbing story in which Isaac is laid out on an altar to be sacrificed at God's request, he only gets one line. The boy (or is he a young man?) asks his dad why they didn't bring a lamb to sacrifice. That's it. If I was writing the story, I would be tempted to tell it from Isaac's point of view. After all, didn't he have the most to lose? But we don't even get to see him squirming on the altar or jumping down in relief when his dad untied him, or huffing off in anger at a god who would jeopardize his life for the sake of testing his dad.

Marriage

The story of "Isaac and Rebekah" takes up 6 columns in my Bible. Guess how many columns Isaac gets? An incidental little mention at the end, that he went into a field to meditate and that he took Rebekah into his mother's tent for the wedding night. He got his name in the heading, but this is not really the story of Isaac. One the surface, it's the story of a servant, an uncle, and a woman brave enough to run off and marry a total stranger. Yet there's another story bubbling underneath

Sons

Jacob and Esau. What can I say? They steal the show. How different they are as twins, even from birth. How they struggle and fight against each other all their growing up years. How Rebekah loved Jacob so much more than the older brother. Where is Isaac in the story of his children?


Old Age

Now the boys are grown and Isaac is old. Here we get the fullest description of this man who has remained, for the most part, a two dimensional character. And the look we get is not all that flattering. His sight has gone. He comes across a bit doddering while his wife plots behind his back (with the help of Jacob) to steal the blessing of the firstborn. He knows something's wrong when Jacob comes to him, but he falls for the trick and gives his blessing to the wrong son. Then, when Esau comes for the blessing, Isaac is powerless to give him one. The best he could say was, "Eventaully, you'll get made enough to escape slavery. Isaac comes across and stupid and impotent in this story. The foolishness of his actions overshadows the eloquence of his blessing.

Death

I almost didn't mention Isaac's death. It's sort of buried (sorry!) in the middle of someone else's story, several chapters after he must have already been gone. He lived. He died.

He was the son of someone important. He was the father of someone important.

The end.

Only not quite. In telling the life of Isaac, I skipped one little story, one that stood out to me as weird and interesting. It starts with Isaac passing off his wife as his sister, a little ploy his dad used more than once. When Abimelek finds out Rebekah is his wife, he institutes a hands-off policy which allows Isaac to plant crops. His fields were super successful, so much that he was asked to leave because he had become too rich and powerful. He moved away for the sake of peace. That night, God appeared to him, promising him the same things he'd promised Abraham, but this time the promise was to Isaac.

And Isaac built an altar and called on the name of the Lord. And the people around saw clearly that the Lord was with him and came to make peace with him. And he dug a well and found water and called that place Beersheba.

I feel like it's taken me a long time to get here, but as I read through the stories of Isaac, frustrated by the fact that he is not featured in his own stories, I'm reminded that none of our stories are our own.

I was with my aunt recently, who is not much older than I am. She is truly in the sandwich generation, caring for both her children and her parents. She doing an amazing job, juggling work and family, watching after elderly parents in two searate care facilities.She's overworked and exhausted. She's also got to feel invisible, like she only exists to care for those older and younger than she is.  I wonder if Isaac ever felt that way?

Or did he feel more like the middle child, not the obedient older child who did everything right (Abraham) or the youngest scamp, always getting into trouble and demanding attention (Jacob).

Or did he, like most of us, feel like he was the key player in the story of the world? Did he think he was the star or was he content to be an extra?

What I've processed this week has been more observational than confessional. Except it makes me think that for those of us who live a quiet life, there seems to be value in holding the generations together, in bridging the time between the superstars, in waiting for the next promise to be fulfilled. And for us middle children out there, isn't the stuff inside the sandwich at least as important and interesting as the bread it's squeezed between?

This week's Torah Portion:
Genesis 28:10-32:3
Hosea 12:13-14:10
Matthew 3:13-4:11

Photo via Visual Hunt

Jehovah Jirah

 This morning, as my newsfeed lights up red, white and blue in mourning and empathy for the people of France, I wonder what the story of the birth of Isaac has to do with all the pain raining down on the world today.

And then I see it, the gem of hope. Among this week's stories about the long awaited birth of the promised son, the search for his wife, and the death of his parents Abraham and Sarah, we find the name of God.

Jehovah Jirah.

The Lord Will Provide.

He provided a sacrifice in place of Isaac. Won't he provide for the people of Paris as well? The song, linked above, was sung in the tunnels of Paris. Listen to the heart of the words from Isaiah 54:10.

Quand les montagnes s'elloigneraient
Quand les collines chancelleraient
Quand les montagnes s'elloigneraient
Dieu fera tout comme il promet.

Son amour, oui, son amour,
ne s'elloignera point de toi.

"Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed ," says the Lord, who has compassion on you.

Today, we lift Paris up in prayer, that the people of this beautiful city will seek solace in the empty cathedrals and that they will find a God who is faithful and whose compassion and unfailing love do not change even when the world around them is in shambles.

This week's Torah Portion:
Genesis 25:19-28:9
Malachi 1:1-2:7
Luke 3:1-18

Forgetting to Breathe

I've been on the run this week...all week...and all good. But, as I struggled with early in this year of intentionally paying attention to Old Testament spiritual rhythms, just because something is good does not mean it is best.

What that translates to is I allowed old habits to take over and forgot to carve out any moments to sit still. I've guarded my Saturday mornings to be able to contemplate the text for the week, but this morning I have no time for contemplation. I've filled my day with work, activities, friendship, family, and music. I'm looking forward to almost everything on my list, but I am finding myself missing the quiet morning moments to breathe in the story of God's people.

A frend of mine recently introduced me to yoga. It has been a great alternative exercise during a season when I am not able to run or hike because of an ankle injury. I love the deep stretches and slow movements of the hour we spend working out the kinks in backs, hips, and necks. I often find, though, that until our guide reminds me that I should be breathing out or breathing in with a particular stretch, I have forgotten to breathe at all. When I fill my lungs with air, hold it for a few seconds and breathe it all out, I feel the tension loosen in whatever muscle I am working on. When I hold my breath, I'm a giant ball of knotted tension.

That's how I feel this morning, like I'm holding a stretch and I've forgotten to breathe.

This week, I must remember to breathe. I have a wonderful opportunity for it as I go on a journey with God's people, a retreat with a bunch of church planters. I can't tell you how excited I am to sit with people who live on the front lines of God's advancing kingdom. I anticipate their presence and energy will force me into deeper stretches of my soul.

Have a good week. And don't forget to exhale.

This Week's Torah portion:
Genesis 23:1-25:18
Malachi 1:1-2:7
Luke 3:1-18

Photo via Visual Hunt

Family Feud

The Torah portion this week started with God calling Abram from where he and his family had settled in Harran to the land God would show him. Immediately I placed an imaginary map of Abram's journey over the story and followed him as he traveled south as far as Egypt and then back north toward Damascus.

I wanted to know where Harran lays on a modern map. Turns out it is just inside the Turkish border, about 17 miles north of Syria. Damascus is in Syria, too. Heard anything about Syria in the news lately?

My entire reading of this week's text was colored (how could it not be) by what is happening today on the very ground Abram and his family traveled through. Here are the stories of the births of nations and of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. We all find our roots in the story of one man and his children. The very land God gave him is still riddled with horrific fighting between the descendants of Abram's two sons.

In Genesis 13:8, between Bethel and Ai (north of Jerusalem in the West Bank), Abram told his nephew Lot, "Let's not have any quarreling between you and me, or between your herders and mine, for we are close relatives." And they divided up who would use what land to avoid a family quarrel. If only Abram had been able to pass this attitude down to his children!

God forged a covenant with Abram and made him some promises.* First, he would give him a huge family that would bring blessing to the entire world. Second, he would give them a chunk of land along the eastern edge of the Mediterranean Sea that would be theirs forever.

And they all lived happily ever after...

...or they would have if Sarai, Abram's wife, hadn't gotten impatient with how long things were taking. Oh, my goodness, how I relate with Sarai. I can just hear her talking in circles around Abram, wondering aloud for years and years when God is going to hurry up already, finally suggesting a plan that would "solve everything" if Abram would just sleep with her maid, Hagar. Okay, that part of the story I really don't relate with. I am NOT handing my husband over to some other woman, nor can I imagine a situation where that would be a good idea, but I did not grow up in a time and place where polygamy was accepted and expected, so who am I to judge?

I do relate, though, to Sarai, when Hagar is pregnant and start treating her wrongly, blaming it all on Abram. Of course it's his fault. Never mind that the whole thing was Sarai's idea, it's definitely his fault.

An angel of the Lord reassures Hagar about her baby, telling her it will be a son and his name will be Ishmael. That's where the reassurance ends. The next thing out of the angel's mouth is "His hand will be against everyone and everyone's hand against him, and he will live in hostility toward all his brothers." Remember that Ishmael became the father of the several Arab tribes, and the beginning of the family line of Mohammad, the founder of Islam. Has a truer prophecy ever been spoken?

God reiterates his promises to Abram, and requires of him a sign that the relationship goes two ways. Abram and all his male offspring are to be circumcised. I've never understood this one, but I'm not a guy. I supposed if I thought about it, I could draw all kinds of parallels about circumcision being intensely personal and a true sacrifice. I could, but I won't. Suffice it to say I'm glad my circumcision is one of the heart.

Abram AND his son Ishmael (and all the other guys in the family) underwent their circumcision and God promised a child to Abram and Sarai once again.

And Abram cried out to God, and said, "If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!"

This part surprised me. I thought God would say, "Nope. That wasn't our deal. No blessing for Ishmael."

That's not what he said. God's response was to bless Ishmael as the father of rulers, of a great nation. There were enough blessings to go around. But for Ishmael, there was no covenant. That was reserved for a child not yet born.

I feel like I've used too many words to say so little here. Buried in this story are the beginnings of a battle between nations that still rages on and hasn't really moved from its birth place. The war in Syria rages on with all its religious undertones not even trying to hide beneath the surface. These nations (Jews and Muslims and Christians alike) are scattering across the globe, looking for anyone who will take them in. And I wonder, where is my part in this? When a Muslim Syrian refugee ends up in my neighborhood, will I treat him any different than if he were a Christian refugee? Or a Jew? Or a Kurd? This question is one I will have to wrestle with. I don't think it's a question of "if" but of "when."

Is the Muslim immigrant destined to be my enemy, a truth set in stone by the word of an angel of the Lord thousands of years ago? I don't think so. My Muslim neighbor is my neighbor, and I know how Jesus thought I should treat her. I might not be able to change the course of history or stop the war in Syria, but I can love my neighbor, whoever it might be.

*This is the third covenant God has made in three weeks of readings. I would like to come back and explore the concept of covenant later in the year, maybe when I anticipate getting bogged down in Numbers.

This week's Torah portion:
Genesis 18:1-22:34
2 Kings 4:1-37
Luke 2:1-38

Photo credit: mark lorch via VisualHunt / CC BY-NC

On Floods and Promises

It took one chapter for God to create the universe, one chapter for him to get mankind settled in the garden, one for mankind to screw up that arrangement and call down curses on farmers and mothers and everyone else.

With such an abbreviated story of beginnings, it's a little surprising that a full five chapters is given to the account of Noah and his family and the flood the killed everyone else. It must be an important story to garner so much real estate. This story hasn't sat well with me a long time. Sure, we decorated the twins' nursery with Noah's ark--what else are you going to use for kids that come two by two?--but even as a child, the idea that man could have been so horrible that God would scrap the whole experiment and start over from scratch brings up a picture of a creator so impatient and so vindictive that he doesn't even resemble the God we know today.

"The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was greatly troubled." He decided to wipe out humans and animals. I know there's mercy in the flood. I know he could have wiped out everyone, but decided to saved one family. I know the entire history of mankind could have lasted less than six chapters. I know he saved the animals through the ark and I know he made a promise with the rainbow, but it doesn't mean I like the story. Floods are such a destructive, violent force, it makes me want to skip that part of the story and hop right to the rainbow.

Isn't that what we've always done? We highlight Noah's righteousness, the building of the ark, the cute animals, the dove and its olive branch. We skip the desperation of people trying to reach high ground, of rivers raging through villages, consuming homes and the families inside, and the awkward part of the story where Noah gets drunk and is found passed out naked in his tent by Ham, who got a good laugh out of it for a minute and then his family was cursed forever.

Dov Landau, Professor of Jewish Literature at Bar Ilan University suggests the story is there to return us to wonderment. In Jewish thought, mankind's ability to question and wonder set the basis for morality. Wonderment brings fear. Fear brings moral restraint. Moral restraint brings religious restraint. Without questions and wonder, morality decays. He also reminds us that death to God is not nearly as permanent as death to us.

And still I am unsatisfied. And so I skip to the end (as usual) where God set a rainbow in the clouds and makes a covenant with Noah--and really with all of us--to never use a flood to destroy the earth again. I took the picture above the other night at sunset. As we drove through town, people stood on every street corner trying to capture the moment of promise on their phones. Some of them might see a rainbow and remember the promise. Others might have rejected the story, or might not even know it. But everyone was drawn to the spectacular display.

Remember? He seems to whisper... I have the power to wipe you out. But I won't. Not now. Not in that way.

I promise.

This week's Torah Portion
Genesis 12:1-17:27
Isaiah 40:27-41:16
Matthew 1:1-17

The First Torah Portion

I was going to sit down this morning and tell you a lie. I was going to write about how my Torah reading this week (while good in itself) took all my time so I couldn't do my study for ladies' Bible class. I was going to say that having time to read and study double portions of scripture is a luxury for those who don't have to work, how it reminds me of how Tevye dreamed of having time to sit in the synagogue and pray, but only the rich could afford to spend their time like that. Then I thought of how many hours I spent this week with my injured ankle propped up watching stuff on Netflix. It's not that I didn't have time. It's how I chose to spend that time.

I started out last Saturday with new resolve. I wanted to not only READ the Torah portion, but WRITE it in my own handwriting. So I did. This practice of slowing down the scriptures lets you see all the words and allow them soak in at a different rate than they do when you simply read them. Listening to them aloud also gives a different perspective. This week, though, was for writing.

It took me all week to write out the five chapters and eight verses that started out the Torah reading for this year. Half the time, I was peaking ahead to see how many more pages, how many more columns I had to write. I got bogged down in the genealogy, even though it's pretty short and has some interesting plot twists.

I made a lot of mistakes, words I had to cross out because I wasn't paying attention, that I assumed I knew because I'd read these passages so many times.

I would have made a terrible scribe.

Unlike the scribes, though, I've given myself permission to make mistakes. They remind me of the quilters and artists who used to make one deliberate mistake in their work in order to illustrate that God is the only one who is perfect. While I hate to have scratched out words in my hand-written Bible portion, it is visible reminder that I'm not perfect except by the grace of God.

I don't expect to keep up with writing the Torah portion this year, but I am making the goal to write out at least the narrative portions. I think it would kill me to hand-write the Levitical laws and the census of Numbers. Does that make me lazy or realistic?

As I read over what I've written above, it comes across as very self-centered. In the midst of reading about the creation--how the entire universe (or universes, though I can't wrap my head around that one) fell off God's tongue tip, how he spoke worlds and solar systems and galaxies into existence, how he breathed life into what he had made--in the midst of all that, I chose to tell you about me.

That's because I am the center of the universe.

The same thing struck me about the creation account. All that God made is so vast, it makes my head ache to think about it too much. But the creation account, what is written in the first chapters of Genesis, place the earth and the garden in the very center of creation. The story revolves around one planet, one garden, one man and one woman.

When I tell my daughter about the day she was born, I leave out the extraneous stuff. The story doesn't include anything happening in other towns to other people. It's all about the two of us (with a couple of nods to her dad). I tell her about how cold it was, how the roads were iced and the snow was falling. I tell her about how I felt when, after hours of hard work, I finally held her and looked into her eyes for the first time. I can almost feel that rush of emotion again, just thinking about it.

The creation story in Genesis struck me the same way, like it's God' telling us, his children, about the day we were born. He left out a lot of details, but he told us the parts he knew we'd like to know. He centered the story around us, his children, because he loves us.

This week's Torah portion:

Genesis 6:9-11:32

Isaiah 53:55:5

Luke 1:1-80

Photo credit: Lawrie Cate via VisualHunt.com / CC BY

Finnegan, Begin Again

First of all, wouldn't it be awesome to have a holiday to celebrate God's word? What a great reminder of how he speaks to us, instructs us, prods us, and exhorts us. I think we should institute a party to say, "We read the whole Bible together. It was amazing. Let's read it again!"

Simchat Torah was quiet at my place, no dancing or singing, no day off work. I did take the time to read the passage Deuteronomy 33-34 and Genesis 1-2:3. The following are my shallow reflections on a passage so rich with history and promise.

Deuteronomy 33:1-26

Moses spoke a blessing over each tribe of Israel. I'd like to go back to this passage some time and compare it to the blessings Israel spoke over each of his sons at the end of Genesis. Note to self. A couple of things stood out to me about these blessings.

• Moses knew these tribes. He knew their personalities and what they needed from the Lord. It reminds me that God knows who I am and what I need.
• Even after hundreds of years, Benjamin and Joseph still seem to be the favorites in many ways. The others might be strong or numerous, but these tribes whose mother was Rachel still seem to hold a special place in God's heart.
• Some of the tribes got less than top billing, but everyone received a blessing.

Deuteronomy 33:27-34:12

I love how God is described in the last verses of chapter 33 when Moses blesses all of Israel. You can hear in his voice how much God loves these people.

Refuge.

     Everlasting arms.

          Savior.

Shield.

     Helper.

          Glorious sword.

In chapter 34, Moses dies (120 but still vital) and God buries him. After a month of mourning, Israel gets a new leader, Joshua. It's not a surprise appointment--he's been prepped for the job. He is filled with a spirit of wisdom. What a great quality in a leader.

He was strong and courageous, wise and godly, but he was no Moses. Moses knew God face to face. Remind me to come back to this some time. It's one of my favorite themes in scripture.

Genesis 1:1-2:3

This is one of the most familiar passages in the whole Bible. After all, every time I dedicate myself to reading through the Bible, I start with Genesis. It's so familiar, I almost don't see the words. This time, though, a few stood out.

And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

I can almost hear the congregation chant the words with me as I read them silently. In a year where I am opening myself to listen for the spiritual rhythms God gave his people, the rhythmic recitation of the beginning and end of each day of creation echoes the pattern set forth from the first evening and morning.

And God said, "Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth." And it was so.

Did you see the blood moon/lunar eclipse last week? Did you notice it fell on the beginning of the Feast of Tabernacles? The Jewish calendar follows the lunar calendar. It's no accident that an important feast started during a major event in the sky. Didn't the sky also tell those who knew to look of Jesus' birth? Won't we see great things in the sky when he comes again?

Circling Back to the Beginning

There's a certain beauty in the fact that when you finish reading the Torah, you don't read The End and close the book. Instead, you flip back to the beginning to start again. At the end, we come to the beginning.

We are never finished.

We are works in progress.

God's word goes on and on and on.

So now, after an extended season of repentance, forgiveness, restoration, atonement, sacrifice, and celebration, we are prepared to face the year. Armed with the knowledge we have gained and the memories of the past weeks, we step into our daily lives armed against whatever challenges may come.

This week's Torah portion:
Genesis 1:1-6:8
Isaiah 42:5-43:10
John 1:1-18 (for Messianic Jews)

Celebrating the Torah

The feasts don't end when the tabernacles come down. In fact, in many places around the world, the day after the Feast of Tabernacles, Shemini Atzeret is celebrated, which literally means "celebration of the eighth day." It's as if God, our host, invites us to stay over another night. The Jews believe this holiday is reserved for them as God's special guests, but I believe Acts 10 extended the table.

The next day, the 23rd day of Tishri (don't you feel like we've had something every day this month?) is another big day, Simchat Torah. In 2015, it fell on October 6 (Monday evening until Tuesday evening).

Simchat Torah is the resetting of the Torah. One of the most interesting things I've discovered so far on this journey is that for thousands of years, every synagogue around the world has read the same portion of Torah each Sabbath. No matter where you are or which week of the year it is, you can know what the reading will be. We could probably pinpoint which weekend Jesus stood up and read in his hometown synagogue based on the passage he read. It must lend a rhythm to the year to know that in a certain season, you will be reading certain scriptures. From now on, I'll try to include those readings at the bottom of each blog.

For Simchat Torah, the congregation reads the end of Deuteronomy, then opens the first scroll to read the beginning of Genesis. Of course, it's not that simple. According to tradition, every male in the synagogue has a chance to read. They split up Deuteronomy 33:1-26 and read it over and over, often in groups, until everyone has had a turn. This chapter is Moses' blessing to the 12 tribes of Israel. More on my personal reflections in my next post.

The end of Deuteronomy 33 and all of chapter 34 are read by a distinguished and revered member of the congregation. These few verses contain Moses' blessing for all of Israel, his death, and Joshua's taking on the leadership of the nation. The whole congregation rises to recite the last verse of the Torah together. Many believe these last words, "For no one has ever shown the mighty power or performed the awesome deeds that Moses did in the sight of all Israel," were breathed by God and written in Moses' own tears.

With the reading of the last verse of Deuteronomy, the reading is not finished. The congregation begs for more. A second scroll is opened, the one containing the book of Genesis. Another respected man reads the account of creation. Everyone joins him in saying, "And there was evening and there was morning, the first day."

Before the scrolls are closed, a third reading takes place, this time from the first part of Joshua. This is a reminder that Moses passed the mantel to Joshua, Joshua to the judges, the judges to the kings and prophets and elders, and so on in an unbroken line until today.

While the subject of the day is serious, there is a celebratory air about Simchat Torah. There is dancing and singing, a parade. It is a time to celebrate God's word.

Photo credit: Avital Pinnick via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND

Under the Blanket Fort

Our tabernacle turned out more liked one of those blanket forts we used to build in the living room. I spent countless hours of my childhood tucked into a cozy space covered with a holey pink blanket that also served as the curtain for our childhood stage productions and as a tablecloth at picnics.

When the canopy was up and a random collection of quilts, blankets, and sheets fastened to it to serve as temporary walls, it felt cozy and familiar inside. The sun shining through the hand-stitched pink quilt cast the same light as that childhood fort. Out came the table and tablecloth, a runner and some candles, a string of white twinkly lights and some corn stalks. It didn't look like much, but it was to be our home outside our home.

I tested the space with a cup of tea and a good book and found it comfy inside, but a little flappy in the wind. Some bricks to anchor the blanket walls took care of that.

The next important thing for our tabernacle was to fill it with friends, food, and laughter. Above, catch a glimpse of a delightful evening, just one of the gatherings that took place in the small, temporary shelter. The candles and twinkly lights filled the little room with a warm glow that chased away the darkness just through the blankets.

I'm in a different sort of tabernacle now, a timeshare apartment at the coast with some good friends. While we didn't build this room for the occasion and we will not deconstruct it at the end of the festival (promise!), I believe this sort of weekend honors the spirit of what God is trying to teach me.

God sustains.

Relationships are good.

Enjoy the harvest.

His presence is with us wherever we go.

Be satisfied.

Open your heart to others.

Even if the walls are flapping and the rain comes in through the roof, God is faithful.

I'd love it if you'd join me in my little fort. It's cozy in here.

What Is the Feast of Tabernacles All About?

Of all the feasts I've celebrated so far this year, the Feast of Tabernacles had the most readily available information. I'm guessing this is because, unlike Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Tabernacles is about doing something. It's about fun, food, and friends. This is not to discount the remembrance aspects and the Messianic threads, but the Feast of Tabernacles (also called Sukkot and the Feast of Booths) shakes off the heaviness of repentance, atonement, and reconciliation and says, "Let's have a party."

The basics of the feast are outlined in Leviticus 23:33-44. Build a shelter and stay outside for seven days. Make sacrifices. Wave 4 kinds of fruit before the Lord. Don't work on the first day. Have the biggest festivities on the last day.

It was a time to remember how God led Israelites out of slavery in Egypt, how he took care of them during their 40 years of wandering in the desert, and how he eventually gave them a permanent home in the land he had promised them.

The festival, which always falls in autumn, also has a harvest aspect to it. In fact, some say the first American Thanksgiving was based off the Feast of Tabernacles tradition.

Tabernacles (or booths or Sukkah) are built outside. Their roofs are typically made of plants so the light of the stars can filter through. They often have only 3 walls made of sheets or blankets, something that can be disassembled at the end of the feast. The openness reminds us not to close ourselves off to the suffering of others. The temporary house reminds us what it was like to have enough, but not more than we needed (like the children of Israel in the desert had enough manna and quail, but could not store it up for the future). It also reminds us we are not in control.

This feast is a time to invite guests. By inviting strangers in, you are also inviting invisible guests like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, David, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Leah, Miriam, Hannah, and Deborah. It's quite a prominent guest list who join you as you open your temporary home.

I gleaned a couple of very interesting points about the Feast of Tabernacles from a book called "Jesus and the Jewish Feasts." Tabernacles is one of the feasts we know Jesus celebrated. He likely celebrated it every year, but only one occasion was recorded in John 7-9. Besides the temple sacrifices, the waving of fruit, and the building of shelters, the Feast of Tabernacles involved a ceremony of fetching water from the Gihon Spring and pouring it out on the altar to ask God to end the long drought season and bring rain to the land. In the evening, there was the lighting of some huge bowls of oil in the women's court of the temple. They say these lights illuminated the temple so everyone in Jerusalem could see it.

It was during the Feast of Tabernacles that Jesus declared, "Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink," and possibly, "I am the light of the world." I never knew that water and light are part of the activities surrounding this holiday.

Photo credit: Israel_photo_gallery via Visualhunt / CC BY-ND

Easy Fast!

"Easy fast!" family and friends say to each other after a hearty meal on Erev Yom Kippur, as they start their 25 hour fast. As I go into the second month of my Old Testament year, I am struck once again by how these moments are meant to be shared in community. I wish myself an easy fast and ask my husband to be sure he and the kid get something to eat later on.

I haven't built up my nerve to attend synagogue yet, but I know I will observe the fast as best I can, including not bathing, not eating, not wearing leather. I draw the line at not driving, because part of spending time in community requires me to travel to my peeps.

In the spirit of sabbath, I do not set my alarm. I wake in time to see the child off to school and listen to the Torah portion as I make the bed. Is making the bed even allowed? I misread the Torah portion and listen to several chapters before realizing I was only supposed to listen to Leviticus 16 this morning. It makes me feel better about God since chapter 17 is full of instructions on who can eat which portion of a sacrificed animal. For some reason, the smell of grilled steaks fills my head and sets my stomach to growling.

I reach for my shoes (which I never noticed before have leather straps) and my purse (also leather). I didn't expect that part of the fast to be a problem. Another purse is found and items are transferred, though it hits me that my wallet might be made of leather. Is fake leather allowed? I slip on my ugly Crocs and head out the door. A couple of hours are spent in sweet conversation with a sweet friend. I talk a lot about Yom Kippur and Sukkot. I'm tired of repenting. I'm ready to party.

I meet another friend for an hour of yoga. Strictly speaking, it doesn't fall into the schedule for Yom Kippur at all, but I am trying to embrace the spirit of the holiday without being bound by its letter. Yoga is a chance to slow down, to listen to myself breathe, and to be still enough for God to speak if he chooses to.

I am weary of repentance. Ten days seems like so long to focus on forgiving, repenting, and doing good works. It makes me thankful once again that I don't have to step through a series of legalistic rituals in order to find atonement. I am weary of doing this alone, having to explain why I'm not eating, why I'm wearing gardening shoes in public, why I can't kiss the hubby good-bye.

I am standing in line at the store with my teenage daughter, talking about what I'm learning when she blurts out, "Jews are weird!" I know what she means, but I'm appalled at what it sounds like. Chosen? Yes. Longsuffering? Yes. Weird? Even as I try to put an adjective to it, I realize no word is complex enough to describe this special people.

I end the fast a little early. I'm shaky and irritable. I'm too weak to see it through. If someone else was doing it with me, I would have made it.

Easy fast? Not so much.

I grab a bagel. I kiss my husband hello. I pin some photo ideas for our tabernacle. I'm looking forward to next week.

Photo credit: Czarnamania via Visualhunt / CC BY-NC-SA

Some Background on Yom Kippur

Though it's only been a couple of strange words on the calendar for me until now, Yom Kippur is actually the big one--the Holy Day of Holy Days, the Sabbath of Sabbaths. It's the end of the high holy days, the end of the blowing of the shofar, and the end of your chance to get your name in the Book of Life for the coming year.

I'll share some in my next post on my personal expeience with a toned-down version of the day, but once again I find it useful to lay out a little background.

Yom Kippur is all about atonement and repentance. The instructions for the day appear in Leviticus 16 and in Leviticus 23. Of course, tradition has taken the instructions even further.

The original day of atonement involved the High Priest (Aaron) entering the Most Holy Place to present a sin offering and a burnt offering for himself before bathing, dressing in sacred clothes, and presenting a sin offering and burnt offering on behalf of the whole nation. One of the two goats he brought to sacrifice would be a burnt offering. The other would be released, alive, into the desert as a scapegoat. The sin offering and burnt offerings for the people would atone for the uncleanness and rebellion of the community of Israel. There's a lot more detail in Leviticus about what Aaron was to do, but that's the gist of it.

Nobody was supposed to work on the Day of Atonement. It was a day of sabbath rest, a day to deny yourself. Once a year, every year, you get a chance at atonement. That means you only get once chance this year to repairing the damage done by your sins.

The temple was destroyed in 70 A.D., so for the past 2000 years, the Jews have not had a place to sacrifice burnt offerings. Here's what Yom Kippur looks like today.

Remember that the Jewish day starts at sunset, so Yom Kippur starts in the evening, after a shared meal. At sunset, everyone begins their fast which continues until the beginning of the next day (the following evening). The Torah does not say the day is a fast, but it is a day to deny yourself, so the Jews deny themselves of these five things:

1. Food and drink
2. Bathing (with the exception of washing hands)
3. Wearing leather
4. Perfumes and lotions
5. Marital intimacy

In addition to abstaining for these five things, they go to synagogue for five services. Here's what they cover:

1. Nullifying any promises made the year before
2. Confessing sins as a community
3. Reading the Torah
4. Remembering family members who have died
5. Blowing the shofar to symbolize the Books of Life has been sealed, the gates of heaven have been closed until next year

The day ends with the breaking of the fast. (This usually involves bagels!)

Volumes have been written about the significance of this day. I didn't even mention the importance of wearing white, why you should give money to charity and not just perform acts of service, or the reading of the book of Jonah. I imagine it would take a lifetime to unpack the ancient and prophetic meanings of this holy day. These few sentences are only a nutshell.

Photo credit: Rob Sheridan via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Days of Awe

The ten High Holy Days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are called the Days of Awe. In a world where everything from a new song to a mismatched pair of socks are Awesome, I am surprised at the reminder that God deserves our awe. In these days, we return to the Old Testament God I was expecting to meet during this journey--the God of Judgment. (This is one of my original questions for this year, how to reconcile the God of the Old Testament and the Christ of the New Testament as one and the same. It is a question I continue to explore and don't expect to resolve.)

Last week on Rosh Hashanah, tradition says God opened three books. One contains the names of those who are totally wicked, one those who are perfectly righteous, and the third holds the vast majority of us who fall somewhere in between. During the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, everyone gets a chance to do as many good deeds as possible to secure a place in the Book of Life. People return to synagogue to confess their sins, they fast, give to charity, and reconcile with each other in an effort to find forgiveness and get penciled into the Book of Life for another year.

It all sounds exhausting. And it makes me very, very thankful that my name is already written in that book. No amount of sacrifice, fasting, confession, or service projects can get me in there any better than it already is--in BOLD LETTERS and indelible ink. And that's not because of anything I've done, but because I said "yes" to the once and for all sacrifice of Jesus.

That said, in the spirit of the Days of Awe, I've been thinking a lot about reconciliation. Last week I was at a ladies' retreat and we spent quite a bit of time listing names of people who fall in different categories--those you confide in, those who are close, but not quite as close, those who are out to get you, those who have disappointed you in some way.

I found myself dwelling on the disappointments. Several relationships came to mind that are not as deep or as close as they once were. The common thread through each of these that came to mind is that, through no fault on either side, the disappointment is probably mutual. Friendships fade, or are wrenched from us, and it leaves a wound and then a scar.

If I had a story of someone whose betrayal cut me, I'm not sure I would share it here. As much as I aim to be transparent, it seems so deeply personal, the dance of friendship. Even as I make purposeful steps to restore lost ties, I hold those conversations close. It reminds me of A.J. Jacobs in The Year of Living Biblically. He set out to spend a whole year obeying each of the commandments of the Bible in turn. When it came time for him to stone someone, he couldn't do it. He found himself walking around town, dropping pebbles at his own feet, and still feeling horrible about his judgmentalism, though no one else could see it.

Here is my stone of judgment. I notice things about people and then I categorize them. I haven't thought of it as gossip before, but maybe it is. "I was out with so-and-so...well, you know how she is. Everything to her is black and white." Or, "He's more likely to visit than to pitch in with cleanup" (a modern twist on the Mary/Martha story). There's a fine line between sharing for understanding and sharing with an edge of superiority. I tend to call it discernment because it sounds wise and astute, but maybe it's just mean. I don't usually intend it that way, but I want to listen to myself to make sure it doesn't come across that way. Hold me to it?

This week's Torah portion: Deuteronomy 31:1-30

*Art quilt "Reconciliation" by Ellen Linder.

Sweet Year!

When I thought of the High Holy Days, the image that came to mind was of sitting in a stuffy room in itchy clothes listening to a man speak words I couldn't understand. I was delighted to find the tradition of Tashlikh, which involved going to lake, river or ocean.

That decided it.

I was celebrating the beginning of Rosh Hashanah outside. In Tashlikh, you toss bread or stones into the water, as if tossing away the sins of last year. Since I happened to be at the ocean with friends, I invited them to join me in this meaningful ritual.

We waded across a shallow river and walked barefoot across the wide expanse of sand. The tide was low, making our walk a long one. Near the lapping waves, we blew the shofar--one long blast, three short, nine staccato, another long--a wake up call to the nature of man, a reminder to break the impulses of our hearts. We read two passages from the Bible.

The first, in Exodus 34:6-7, reminded us of God's mercy. Thirteen times in these two short verses, we are told that God is merciful, that he forgives, that he remembers us. In Micah 7:18-19, we read:

Who is a God like you,
   who pardons sin and forgives the transgression
   of the remnant of his inheritance?
You do not stay angry forever
   but delight to show mercy.
You will again have compassion on us;
   you will tread our sins underfoot
   and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea.

In a year when I imagined being overwhelmed by God's wrath, I find myself instead being flooded by his mercy.

We named our sins (to ourselves), and hurled them into the depths of the sea.

Or at least we tried.

Since we couldn't find any pebbles on the sandy beach, we threw bread instead. The tide was coming in and kept washing our sins up around our feet. Thank God he can throw farther than we can, far enough that our sins will never, ever wash back up on shore.

We ended our time together by singing Oceans, a song about how God's grace abounds in deepest waters.

I couldn't have planned the timing, but in the evening, when trumpets were sounding in synagogues and homes all throughout our city, God sounded another joyful trumpet blast as we witnessed our youngest child take a big step toward Jesus by identifying with his death and his resurrection in the water of baptism. This girl's sins are also buried in the depths, gone forever.

Rosh Hashana ends tonight. Last night, I enjoyed a compote of apples with a little taste of honey, a reminder that the Lord is sweet and a hope for a sweet new year. That is my wish for you, that your year will be sweet.

The book of life has been opened. We now enter a time of reflection, repentance, and restoration before the book is sealed once again until the next new year begins.

Shanah Tovah.



*Special thanks to Kevin Woods for the use of his shofar, to Melinda Brummett and Rosco Pirtle for the photos, to Melinda, Sara, Barb, and Andrea for sharing moments on the beach with me, and to the cloud of witnesses who stood by not only for our daughter's baptism but for her life.

Preparing for the Feast of Trumpets

A big part of my walking through the Jewish feasts this year is my reading and study to understand what each holy day is about. I have a pretty good grasp on Sabbath and Passover, but several of the others elude me.

As we come up on the first feast day of the year, the Feast of Trumpets, or Rosh Hashanah, I find myself poring over books and websites to tell me not only what to do, but why.

Rosh Hashanah (New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) are the holiest days of the year. They are also difficult to understand because they mark an inward growth and transformation. These holidays call us to introspection and prayer.

Preparation for Rosh Hashanah actually begins a month before with daily prayer, reflection, and repentance. These days in the month of Elul are said to remind us of Moses' second trip up Mount Sinai to get a replacement set of the ten commandments after Moses broke the first set in the golden calf incident. No wonder we think of this as a time of repentance. I bet the wandering children of Israel, even with their short attention span, were truly sorry for what they'd done. To remember this time, today's Jews go through a period of prayer focused heavily on God's mercy (Ex. 34:6-7).

On Rosh Hashanah, as on most of the feast days, there is an aspect of looking back and an aspect of looking forward. Here is the whole instruction of what God wanted the Feast of Trumpets to be:

The LORD said to Moses, "Say to the Israelites: 'On the first day of the seventh month you are to have a day of sabbath rest, a sacred assembly, commemorated with trumpet blasts. Do no regular work, but present a food offering to the LORD.'" (Lev. 23:23-25)

It's not much to go on, is it? That might explain why much of this holiday's tradition has developed over the centuries. Tradition says that the Feast of Trumpets reminds us of the trumpets Joshua and his army blew as they marched around Jericho (God fights our battles), of the ram's horn that got caught in the bramble, saving Isaac from being sacrificed by his father (God provides the sacrifice for us), the sound of the trumpet on Mount Sinai that signaled that God was speaking (God speaks).

Looking forward from that point, we know Jesus will return with the sound of trumpets (1 Cor. 15:51-52; 1 Thes. 4:16-18; Mat. 24:31), but did you know he also might have already arrived to the sound of trumpets? Tradition suggests Jesus may have been born on Rosh Hashanah, his birth on earth announced by the blowing of the shofar in every synagogue in Israel.

This weekend, around the world, the trumpets will sound. I'll write about some of the activities associated with Rosh Hashanah once I've experienced them myself and allowed their significance to soak in.

 Looking back, looking forward.

Photo credit: rbarenblat via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Learning to Rest, Round 2

After last week's Sabbath debacle, I spent time this week reframing what Sabbath is meant to be. I found myself asking, what if Sabbath is more about what you can do and less about what you can't.

Last week's prohibitions, which felt more like a straight jacket than a blessing, were unshackled and cast aside, replaced by heart and soul willing and ready to throw themselves headlong into rest.

So it might surprise you to hear that for the second Saturday in a row, I was up before sunrise, this time driving an hour and half to wipe tables and sweep up after a couple hundred teenagers' meals. I was heading out to the final Faith Quest, a weekend where teens encounter the living God. At face value, it wasn't set up to be a restful day.

In terms of relaxation, it wasn't restful at all. In terms of the spirit of the Sabbath, though, it felt closer in line with God's intention. The day was filled with worship, which in itself should mark it as a success. It was also filled with sweet reunions, including the chance to hug the neck of someone I love so dearly but rarely speak to. It gave me an opportunity to serve some of God's children and to work alongside others.

It reminded me of Jesus. The times we see him on the Sabbath, he's defending his followers' right take care of themselves, he's healing people left and right, he's reading scripture.

He's redefining rest.

Photo credit: ( kurtz ) via VisualHunt.com / CC BY-NC-ND

I Don't Do Nothing Well

You know how when you decide to fast or start a new diet, all you can think about is food? You know how you can sometimes hold out until around lunch time and then you decide this wasn't a good day to start and you'll try again tomorrow?

Or is that just me?

Yesterday, I experimented with Sabbath Rest.

It didn't go so well.

I woke at five in the morning and all I could think about was rearranging my bookshelves. I lay in bed for quite a while reminding myself that it was supposed to be a day of rest...no projects that had to be done. By 6:30, I was in the kitchen tearing everything off the shelves.

"It will calm me to have this project done," I told myself. "I can't rest when they're so messy."

That was just the start. Before I knew it, the shelves were tidy, the plums were drying in the dehydrator, and I was half way through the application process for a new business license.

I'm pretty sure starting a new business goes against the spirit of what a day of rest is supposed to be about.

There's something deep inside of me that says resting (think: doing nothing) is, at best, a waste of time, and at worst, an unpardonable sin. But God didn't call his people to do nothing, he called them to be still, to honor him and his presence among them. I don't do nothing well. Even if I'm watching TV, I'm probably folding clothes, pitting plums (did I mention we've got a bumper crop of plums?), or thumbing through recipes.

The day wasn't a total loss. In the midst of all the things that kept pulling me to busy-ness, I found a few reminders that the measure of a day isn't always in what you accomplish. Here are a few of those nuggets:

In the process of cleaning off the shelves, I found my book on spiritual rhythms and a book on celebrating Jewish holidays, both of which had chapters about Sabbath.

Because I hadn't prepacked my day, I was able to spend time in the kitchen with the young'un and teach her how to make pancakes.

I did some reading, much of it reminding myself what Jesus did and did not say about the Sabbath (more on that in a later post).

I find myself looking forward to next Saturday when I will set aside time to try again.

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