Spiritual discipline through the repetitive action—the “walking” out—of the mitzvot builds within us emotional muscle memory. Given that we are largely driven by our emotions, any repetitive action binds itself to our personhood, our heart, our mind, and that same action builds within us an emotional response.

Telling our children and grandchildren a story rooted in ancient history, and equipping them to pass it on, amidst our culture of endless sound bites and news flashes can be challenging indeed. That’s why Passover in this current generation may be different from all other Passovers.

Along with other rabbis, Rabbi Sha’ul correlated reckless speech with an infectious skin disease that starts off as a small infection, grows if left unchecked, and eventually consumes and kills the body as it expands.

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.

If this is true for Israel as a whole, God’s priestly nation among the nations of the world, how much more for the family of Aaron, chosen to be the priestly family of the priestly people? The great tragedy in this week’s portion makes the danger of election all too evident.

Tzav is our reminder to continue to practice sacrificial worship in our lives today. How do we do this? Let’s take a moment to reflect on two questions. First, what is considered a sacrifice today? And second, where is the altar?

Each of us was given a name shortly after birth and, for most of us, we are still called by that name. When I hear my name, it commands my attention. It identifies me. It also means that the person who has called me knows my name.

Is there a lesson that can be gleaned by observing the relationship between the Flintstones and the Jetsons? I think there is, and I believe it to be profound.

God created a home for us in His creation of the universe. God has created a home for us through the life, death, and resurrection of His Messiah. May we create a home for Him in this world, by not only learning His precepts and understanding their application, but by embracing the very essence of His Holy Torah.

Moses is likened to a “friend”—specifically, a friend of God. Yeshua is on record promising “friendship” to believers who abide (John 15:14). Then, immediately afterwards, He reiterates the point, saying: “I have called you friends” (15:15). It’s hard to overstate the significance: the relationship with God that believers in Yeshua enjoy is akin to Moses’.

The breastplate bearing the names of the tribes of Israel, each in its place, reminds us also to embrace our God-given place and not to compare ourselves with the other servants; neither to seek a better position than theirs, nor to grovel in our lowliness. Instead, we’re to serve within the space God has prepared for us, and prepared us for.

The voice of God to Moses, and by extension to the assembly of Israel, came by way of an organized and intentional religious space. It was not random or haphazard. It was not spontaneous or unconstrained. God’s voice came within an organized space and time.

At the conclusion of last week’s parasha, Israel is given immortality with its designation as a “Kingdom of Priests and a Holy Nation” (Exod 19:6). Mishpatim, literally “ordinances,” on the other hand, is often thought of as a law book pronouncing mundane rules that deal with a plethora of subjects.

Moses on the mountain, Isaiah caught up into the throne room of God; these accounts fuel our imagination of God as high and lofty, untouchable, unapproachable. In contrast is a wonderful little line nestled within the opening verses of Parashat Yitro: “And Aaron came with all the elders of Israel to eat bread with Moses’ father-in-law before God.”

There comes a time when God’s people need to battle. At such times, while some prefer to remain spectators, and others to be support personnel behind the lines, some will engage in the thick of things, believing themselves called to give their all in a time of transition, opportunity, or threat.

It’s election season, but the search for trustworthy leaders in our day seems to always lead to disappointment for many of us, or even for most. This makes the story of the Exodus all the more remarkable. It is not hard to understand why Moses looms so large in Jewish history.

In the beginning, Adam walked in the garden with God, and they shared an intimacy of fellowship (Gen 3:8). The oneness represented is the heart of what we know as worship. This is why humans were created. To live life in praise to God: “the people I formed for myself, so they may declare my praise” (Isa 43:21).

This week we read of Moses’ first encounter with God at the burning bush. In this conversation on the mountain, Moses finds himself wrestling with the great battle of the saints: Faith vs fear. And his fear nearly won the day.

Our parasha begins, Vayechi Yaakov, “Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years.” The language of this opening line is somewhat unexpected. Why say that Jacob lived in the land of Egypt? In English translation it’s unremarkable, but there are other verbs that might have worked in Hebrew.

Hundreds marched behind Martin Luther King and beside him, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who famously wrote later, “Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt like our legs were praying.”

Joseph was a dreamer and interpreter of amazing dreams, full of meaning. He was in an Egyptian prison after a convoluted sequence of events triggered by a gift–the Technicolor Dream Coat (Gen 37:3)—the resulting jealousy of his brothers, and his own dreams of his brothers bowing to him.

As we commemorate Hanukkah this year, let’s focus on the shamash candle, the servant light that brings light to the rest of the menorah and sheds that light to the entire house. Let’s focus on Yeshua the quintessential servant, who through his sacrificial life brings light to the entire world.

Probably about once a month, I will think about this famous scene in “Fiddler on the Roof.” Tevye is observing a conversation between two men, arguing about whether we need to read the newspaper and be aware of outside events or not. He agrees with each one in turn by saying “You’re right.”

Our tribal history contains the classic elements of being chosen, having a special legacy, and being different from (and perhaps superior to) the Other. But in typical fashion for the Torah, the account of tribal origins points beyond the usual motifs to hint at hope and transformation to come.