The Bread of Affliction

I like to describe the Passover seder as a bible lesson around a dinner table. It's actually been that way since the very beginning, because that's how God designed it.

The entire purpose of this dinner-table worship is to teach the next generation about God's deliverance. 

“You shall observe this as an institution for all time, for you and for your descendants...And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this rite?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to the LORD, because He passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt..." Exodus 12:24,26-27 JPS85

The incredible thing is that the Passover seder today is identical in structure to the seder in Jesus' time. The whole thing - both then and now - is done in the same order, in the same way, around every Passover table. Of course, many songs and stories have been added along the way since then, and there's no longer a sacrificial lamb because there's no longer a Jerusalem Temple with an altar. But the foundation and the structure and the prayers of the seder remain the same.

Something I've always loved about this intimate worship service is that - even since before Jesus - we're instructed to retell the Exodus around the table as if we were there. We take turns around the table reading from the Hagaddah, the worship guide, and we recount the whole thing in the first person: We put lambs' blood on our doorposts. I walked through the divided Red Sea. God rescued us. 

And, during the section just before the dinner break, we use three specific foods to retell the exodus story: unleavened bread, roasted lamb, and bitter herbs. This is based on God's specific command: "...they shall eat [the lamb] with unleavened bread and bitter herbs." Numbers 9:11. Not only did God rescue Israel out of Egypt, but He also curated the menu for the annual  commemoration!

Fifteen hundred years after that rescue, Jesus sat around His last Passover meal with His closest friends. And there in that upper room, they shared those very same three foods at their table to retell the exodus - just like everyone was doing across Jerusalem that night, the city bursting at its seams with Passover pilgrims. 

During the retelling, just before the dinner break, Jesus would have raised the unleavened bread, just like every other host at every other table across the city - just like my grandpas used to do. And there's something about the unleavened bread in Jesus' hands that always impacts me. If you're not from a Jewish background, or haven't been part of a Passover seder or teaching, you may not have seen it before. 

(This, by the way, is why I love to write and teach: to share the Jewish context of things the Messiah said and did, in order to deepen our understanding, and awe, and love of Him.) 

In any event, this unleavened bread, the matzah, is intended to represent the poverty and suffering endured by the Israelites. That's why God actually called it the Bread of Affliction.

"...for seven days eat unleavened bread, the bread of affliction, because you left Egypt in haste—so that all the days of your life you may remember the time of your departure from Egypt." Deuteronomy 16:3 NIV

At this moment in the worship, the seder host breaks the Bread of Affliction and distributes the pieces to each person at the table. But during the Last Supper, Jesus did more than only guide the twelve in their remembrance of the Exodus rescue. He also told them to remember something new, from that Passover on.

He took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave to them, saying, "This is my body which is given for you. Do this in memory of me." Luke 22:19 HNV

It had made perfect sense to the disciples that, after feeding the five thousand, Jesus had announced He was the Bread of Life. But now, this Bread of abundant Life was breaking the Bread of Affliction in His hands, saying that this Passover bread of suffering represented His own body. And that it would be broken to bring about the greater exodus redemption. 

Jesus said that every time we eat that broken bread, we should remember His broken body. That we should not only remember the broken lambs of the exodus rescue long ago, but to now remember the Lamb's broken body in the greater rescue: our rescue of all humanity from the brokenness of sin and death. 

And so I remember. I remember Jesus, broken and poured out, in the Passover way of remembering that I've always known. 

In Passovers past, I remembered redemption as girl who had labored under Pharaoh, sheltered under the blood, and scrambled through the waters. And I still do remember Passover that way. But now, I also remember as if I had been there in Jerusalem with Jesus during His last Passover on Earth. I remember as if I were a friend at the table and a woman in the multitude. I remember, beholding my redemption as if in real time. 

This week, as we raise and break and eat our matzah, that is what I will be remembering, and how I will be remembering it. 

And every time I take communion, that is what I remember and how try I remember it. 

And so, if you ever see me sitting there with my eyes closed, cradling the bread and wine in my hands for a long while in my seat, it's because I am trying to hear Jesus' voice at the table and to see His broken body on Golgotha. I'm trying to take and to eat and to never forget the love that led Him there.

Let us all remember, for He has remembered us.

"When You Shall Come to the Land..."

A pomegranate ripening
on the vine in Nazareth
on my last visit, 2018

Almost every winter growing up, I received a crisp white certificate in the mail, suitable for framing. Not a single thing on it changed from year to year except the date stamp. It featured the very same watercolor print: a springtime tree awash in all shades of green, surrounded by verdant hills and groves of trees. And, below the tree is this beautiful directive from God, printed in both Hebrew and English: 

"When you shall come to the land, you shall plant trees." Leviticus 19:23

If you come from a Jewish upbringing, you know this lovely piece of cardstock. You could see it in your head without me even describing it. This unmistakeable certificate graces homes and synagogues and classrooms even today. You may have a whole stack of them from your bubbe (grandma), each with the printed proclamation that a tree will be planted in your honor - or as a thank you, or in loving memory of a dear one - in Israel. Or maybe a ring of trees, or an entire orchard of trees.

But why now, in the dead of winter? It may seem strange to think about planting trees in January. It's blustery and the ground is frozen - at least it is where I live. But trees are on our collective Jewish minds today, because it is Tu B'Shevat - affectionately known as the Jewish New Year for Trees, or - more accurately - the birthday for trees. 

jnf.org

Tu B'Shevat is literally the "fifteenth of" the Hebrew month "Shevat." But the reason we call it the birthday for trees is that, on Shevat 15, God said to mark which trees were three years old, four years old, and older than five. Fruit from the baby trees was to be left alone. No eating it, no tithing it, literally derive no benefit from it. Fruit of the four-year-olds belonged to God. Then finally, after the trees' fifth birthday, the fruit not only counted toward the tithe, but could now also grace the tables. 

There's something unsaid in these instructions that encourages me to no end: God gave directions for how to handle growing bounty to people who were wandering around as nomads in the desert. In fact, the Israelites were just beginning their forty-year odyssey through the wilderness. 

For four decades - a full generation - God's people wouldn't be able to put down roots. No planting groves of olive trees or cultivating fields of grain. No designing orchards of fig and pomegranate, with walls draped with grape vines and sheltered by majestic palms.* And yet, here God was, giving them instructions for managing abundance in the Promised Land. 

He could have waited until the Israelites were entering the Land. Or He could have given them the instructions through Joshua, when the tribes readied to disperse and settle in their assigned regions of Canaan. He could have, but He didn't. 

And so I don't see a command in this passage as much as I see a promise: reaching the Promised Land was a forgone conclusion. It wasn't if you arrive, but "When you shall come into the land..." That promise must have sustained their hearts through the long journey just as tangibly as the manna from heaven and water from the rock sustained their bodies. God is so kind to us, even when the road is rough and seems interminably long.

In so many ways, the Israelites' long sojourn from Egypt to Canaan is a parallel to our own journey through life. They walked from the saving sacrifice of the lambs on Passover to finally crossing the Jordan into the abundance of the Promised Land. Today, our lives are a journey through "the already and the not yet," making our way from the saving sacrifice of the one Lamb toward the permanent abundance of eternity - namely, the abundance of God's glorious Light and the absence of death's excruciating thorns. 

On this exodus road, we are sustained by an even greater promise than the agricultural abundance of a physical land. We are sustained by the One we celebrated just a few short weeks ago. The Messiah's coming-alongsideness soothes us when we're scorched in the dry and desolate wilderness, and warms us when we shiver uncontrollably in the bleak and frozen winter. We may reach the edge of our journey singed and frostbit, but even so, we will have reached the greater Promised Land. The eternal Promised Land where a flourishing awaits that we even cannot begin to fathom. 

So today, on this birthday of trees, I will look out on the baby dogwood outside my study window, the one that bore only two blooms last year, and know that she is growing in ways I cannot see. That her roots are pushing down and branching out and receiving nourishment for the long haul, when her flourishing will create such a thick cloud of blossoms that I'll no longer see the road that stretches out behind her. 

In the meantime, I will celebrate the bounty God has given in so many ways, through all things great and small. I will celebrate His promise-keeping to my ancestors in the wilderness, and to me in this present journey to the greater Land. 

Praise the Lord for He is good, His goodness is eternal!

Psalm 106, 107, 118, 136; 2 Chronicles 20 

* These are the "seven species" of crops that God named when describing the bounty of Israel just before they crossed over the Jordan: "The Eternal your God is bringing you into a good land, a land ... of wheat and barley, of [grape] vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of oil-rich olive trees and date honey." Deuteronomy 8:7-8 The Voice

#messianic #tubishevat #tubshevat #trees #yeshua #jesus #beginningwithmoses #exodus #promisedland #alreadyandnotyet

A Jewish Girl in Palestine

 Many people have asked me - as a Jewish believer in Jesus - to share publicly how I feel and what I think about what is happening in Israel and Palestine. I’ve resisted. It’s too difficult on many different levels. Instead, I want to share with you a life-changing moment from my last trip to the Holy Land...  

I didn’t understand a single word Ibrahim* was saying. Even so, I listened to him share earnestly in his native Arabic with the Palestinian young adults who filled the room. With each of his words, my heart pounded harder. Because, while I may not have understood Ibrahim’s words, I knew what was coming. Finally, I heard him say my name, and then “Yahud.” At the Arabic word for Jew, all twenty-something heads turned as one, eyes locked on me. 

We’d all just spent a week together, ministering to Arab Christian youth and families side-by-side at a retreat center in the West Bank. We’d shared laughter and music and food and Jesus. But the gulf between Jews and Palestinians is deep and wide, as you well know. Which is why, in the month leading up to that week of camp in 2018, Ibrahim and Omar (ministry staff who we know and love) decided we should keep my heritage under wraps during camp. I’d been thinking the same thing. Everyone agreed it would be too distracting. After all, we were coming together to share the love of Jesus with families living in the West Bank, not to workshop a turbulent cultural divide. 

But now, camp was over. And Ibrahim had decided that the time was right to let them know. Right then and there in our post-camp leader meeting. Giving me about a thirty-second heads up. And so, there we were: a roomful of Palestinian Jesus followers, a handful of American Jesus followers, and me, the Jewish Jesus follower.

If you’re American, you might wonder what all the fuss is about. We all love Jesus, right? But in that sliver of terrain that is the Holy Land, people aren’t ever separated from their heritage. Really, in a very profound way, these Palestinian peers recognized me more clearly than either my American Jewish community or my American Christian community do – both of which often see my Jewishness as my background – as my past – not as my enduring identity. Yes, I love Jesus, but I am still a Jew – in my eyes and in theirs. (No different from Jesus’ disciples!)

And so I trembled in those frozen moments in the wake of Ibrahim’s words. Would they distrust all of their time with me? Would the leaders erase the memory of me toting children on my hip and braiding beautiful hair and holding little hands on the way to dinner? Would the women shut out the memory of our shared shrieks of laughter during field games? Would they all discard the fellowship of our songs and prayers? Would they hate me?  

No, they would not, did not. Instead, this group of people who’d been born and raised inside the confines of Palestine, under the watch of Israel, rose from their chairs and gathered around me. And laid their hands upon me to pray over this Jesus-following Jewish girl – in Arabic. And to pray for my whole family – while my husband and children and father-in-law bowed their heads, too.  

In real time and in real flesh, we were living out the reality of Ephesians 2:14.  

For He is our peace, who made both groups one and tore down the dividing wall of hostility. 

The Gospel we’d been sharing all week with others was now on full, glorious display within us and among us.

The next morning over breakfast – our last meal together – I was asked to share my faith story. Bridges were being built in that place, in those days. And they have continued that work in the years since, even through troubled times like these. 

And so, in these fraught days of 2023, I don’t have a political or military solution to share with you. But this is something I do know. The world tells us that in order to love one, we must hate the other. That in order to honor one people’s suffering, we must minimize the suffering of the other. But that is not the way of Jesus. On the Cross, He bore the suffering of all, and destroyed the barriers of hostility between all. And that is the cross I want to carry, come what may. 

*Names have been changed for security and safety.

The Covenant...of Salt?

A batch of my za'atar challah, with
its giant flecks of salt!

Pretty much every Friday morning, I spend a few hours alone in my kitchen, baking golden braids of challah.* 

It all started three years ago, when I was missing my grandparents. I decided to do something tangible that would connect me to them and the foundation of faith they'd instilled in me. This Friday ritual quickly became an anchor in my psyche: a sanctuary to simply take time and to receive it. Shelter from life's noise and haste. A time and place where there is nothing for my mind to do but wonder and wander and pray.

I no longer use a written recipe; it's pretty much muscle memory now. But when I first got started, I used my grandma's instructions as a foundation and then started tweaking it each week. Tweaks based on others' suggestions and my personal preferences. 

Chief among my personal preferences is sweetness. Honey, to be exact. An entire half-cup of it. My grandma's recipe has just three tablespoons of sugar and absolutely zero honey. 

But I love honey. And I love what it does to the Sabbath bread as we celebrate the sweetness of holy rest. On occasion, we even drench the bread in honey for good measure. As I like to say (despite the eyerolls of those around me, like my kiddos): instead of a double-fudge brownie, it's double-honey challah!

Yet, for all the love of sweetness and honey, there's also an age-old tradition to dip challah in something that is decidedly not sweet. You may see people dip the bread in salt on Shabbat. "Tradition" isn't the right word, though, because this practice isn't built on tradition. It's built on covenant. 

A covenant, you say? A covenant of salt? Yes, exactly.

Don’t you know that the LORD, the God of Israel, has given the kingship of Israel
to David and his descendants forever by a covenant of salt?  2 Chronicles 13:5 NIV (emphasis mine)

What in the world is a covenant of salt? Well, the first time we hear this phrase is in Leviticus, everyone's favorite book of the whole entire Bible. 

You shall season all your grain offerings with salt. You shall not let the salt of the covenant
with your God be missing from your grain offering; with all your offerings you shall offer salt.
Leviticus 2:13 ESV (emphasis mine)

And then...

Whatever is set aside from the holy offerings the Israelites present
to the LORD I give to you and your sons and daughters
as your perpetual share. It is an everlasting covenant of salt
before the LORD for both you and your offspring.” Numbers 18:19 NIV (emphasis mine)

What is it about salt that ties together King David's throne, Levitical sacrifices, and the priesthood's sustenance? In a way that is covenantal? 

It is, quite simply, that salt preserves. 

A covenant invoking salt is about permanence. The permanence of David's throne. The permanence of God's mercy through the altar. The permanence of the priesthood. Each of them bridging the gap between God and people in different ways. Because no matter who claimed power in Israel - whether Jerusalem or Babylon or Rome - God remained our true King. No matter how grievous the sin, the altar's blood maintained mercy from generation to generation. And no matter which descendant of Aaron held the high priestly office, he bore the names of all God's people on his shoulders and over his heart as he ministered in the sanctuary. A covenant of salt endures.

Indeed, what could possibly be more enduring than a covenant with the Eternal?

This lovely piece from
Yair Emanuel is one
example of challah boards
that feature a salt well.

And so, when we dip our sabbath bread in a little dish of salt on Friday evenings, we are remembering and celebrating the permanence of God's promises - and the permanence of God's presence - even as the sun quietly slips below the horizon.

And yet. A covenant that depends on fallible people keeping up their end of the bargain is prone to fracture. Prone to decay. Prone to impermanence. We know it about the Israelites and we certainly know it about ourselves.

Of course, God knew this, too. And so the covenant of salt continued to preserve His promises and His presence among us by giving way to a new age. A newer covenant. Where someone else holds up our end of the deal on our behalf, delivering us from our own impermanence, our own decay. That someone that God gave us was Himself, through the incarnation of the Messiah. The Anointed. Yeshua. Jesus.

The once-and-for-all sacrifice, made with eternal blood, covers us always.

The Priest in the order of Melchizedek intercedes without ceasing.

And the Lion of Judah reigns, on the everlasting heavenly throne.

God has kept his covenant of salt with us in ways we could not have imagined. Through such a profoundly magnificent - yet personal - rescue. 

And so the ancient covenant of salt endures without threat of fracture or decay. Upheld by the One greater than death, the One outside of time, the One entirely and perfectly - and eternally - good.

*Challah is pronounced either with a throaty "ch" or just the "h" (hallah); not a "ch" like in 'church' or a hard "k" as in 'choir.' Here's a great explanation/tutorial. 

Pentecost: Firstfruits & Cheesecake...

My grandma's mini-cheesecake recipe,
with a crust made from Dewey's Brownie
Crisp Cookies and raspberry preserves. Mmmm

When the sun sets this Thursday evening, many of my Jewish brothers and sisters around the globe will not get ready for bed. Instead, they'll hunker down and spend the whole night reading and studying Torah. Probably sustained by eating all things dairy, like gouda and blintzes.

The reason? It's Shavuot, literally “weeks” - as in the biblical Feast of Weeks. 

Shavuot is one of the three ancient pilgrimage feasts for God’s people. He also called it the Harvest Festival and the Day of Firstfruits. You may know it better as Pentecost. That’s Greek for “fiftieth.”

“From the day after the Sabbath [during Passover]...count off seven full weeks. Count off fifty days up to the day after the seventh Sabbath, and then present an offering of new grain to the LORD. From wherever you live, bring two loaves made of two-tenths of an ephah of the finest flour, baked with yeast, as a wave offering of firstfruits to the LORD." Leviticus 23:15-17 NIV (emphasis mine)

Weeks, days, new grain… What, pray tell, does the offering of firstfruits have to do with people studying Scripture all night and eating lactose-laden treats? Well, it has everything to do with the date of the feast. Though, to be precise, there’s actually no given date on the calendar for Pentecost. God simply said to start counting after the Passover Sabbath, and to be back in Jerusalem on the fiftieth day with their firstfruits offering. Hence the “Feast of Weeks” and the “fiftieth day.”

This countdown to fifty from Passover is not arbitrary, nor is it simply a nice round number. The fiftieth day after the original Passover rescue was extraordinary. That was the day when God gave His people the Law at Mount Sinai. There was thunder and lightning and covenant making. 

God may have made personal covenants with Abraham and with Isaac and with Jacob hundreds of years earlier, but on that day He entered into a covenant with their descendants en masse. The promises He'd made to each of the patriarchs individually now became a covenant with an entire people. A nation in the making.

And along with His covenant promises that day, God began to give them the Ten Commandments and all the laws that flowed from them. Voluminous guidelines that would help them become a real nation. From spiritual to relational, and from legal to medical. Father Abraham’s children were invited to grow into a healthy society, with the Almighty Creator-Redeemer as king.

And that is why Judaism has a longstanding Shavuot/Pentecost tradition of feasting all night on those precious words given to us on that covenantal day. And -  since we love to teach bible lessons with food, and since Scripture is often referred to as spiritual milk - also feasting on delectable dairy dishes. So. Much. Dairy. Cheese blintzes, cheese pancakes and cheesecake. Caprese salad, lasagna and ice cream. Frittatas and pizza and noodle kugel. My sincerest apologies to the lactose-intolerant.

In other words, by studying scripture and eating foods that represent it, we celebrate the covenant God made with us and the Scriptures He gave to us, on that first fiftieth day. 

And, in exchange for God’s words and His word that day, the people gave Him theirs. 

Then all the people responded together and said, “All that the LORD has spoken we will do!”  Exodus 19:8 NASB

Of course, we know how that turned out. No matter how magnificent the covenant with the Creator was, the people couldn’t keep it.

Of course, neither can we. We make all sorts of promises to stay on the right track. To get back on the right track. To never make a mistake like that again – whatever “that” may be for us. Not a single one of us can “do all that the Lord has spoken.” And that is why we needed a new covenant. Because “the fault [was] not with the covenant, but with the people who did not remain faithful to it.”*

The Israelites in the wilderness knew this was true. They'd fallen into worshipping the golden calf before the stone tablets even made it down the mountain. And God's people in Jesus' day knew it, too. They knew it from the smoke of their endless sacrifices rising from the altar, reminding them that they could never get it right. At least not for very long. They knew this about themselves, just like we know it about ourselves.

But God's chosen people also knew that someday, He was going to establish a new covenant. He’d promised it. A covenant they could keep, because God was going to keep it for them.

“Indeed, a time is coming," says the LORD, "when I will make a new covenant … I will put my law within them and write it on their hearts and minds. I will be their God and they will be my people... For I will forgive their sin and will no longer call to mind the wrong they have done.” Jeremiah 31:31-34 NET

Instead of scrapping the whole human experiment and washing His hands of the whole thing – which He had every right to do - God leaned in. Toward us. And it was during that monumental Shavuot/Pentecost of Acts 2 when it all came together. 

Hundreds of thousands of Jewish pilgrims were gathered in Jerusalem for the feast, just like they’d been doing every year for almost 1500 years. Celebrating that “first” fiftieth day when God had descended with thunder and fire and smoke on the mountain. 

All the while, two things were rattling around in their heads: (1) the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus in their midst just fifty days earlier, and (2) God’s 600-year-old promise to establish a new covenant. Could it really be that the new covenant was happening then, after all that time? Yes. Yes, it was.

In the midst of their harvest offerings and worship, God descended like flames and a whirlwind from heaven once again. The promised new covenant had arrived. On the anniversary of the original covenant. The Holy Spirit indwelling humans for the very first time, right before their very eyes. 

Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift! 2 Corinthians 9:15

Our God is absolutely unfathomable. And more intentional than we could ever begin to imagine. His intention was and is and will always be to bring redemption and restoration in every possible way. The fiftieth day - in Sinai and at Pentecost - is a glorious reminder of His audacious and eternal promises. And of His power and desire to keep every single one of them.

I will most certainly raise a glass of milk to that.

*Stern, D. H. (1995). Jewish new testament commentary. Jewish New Testament Publications, Inc.