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Tag: Tikkun Olam

  • The Lord’s Pesach: Entering the Shelter of Freedom

    The Lord’s Pesach: Entering the Shelter of Freedom

    There’s something sacred in how these traditions mirror and echo one another—freedom, sacrifice, deliverance, and divine renewal.

    This reflection was written in response to a question from my friend Roger, a Christian brother and fellow seeker, who on Easter Sunday—April 20th, 2025 on the Roman calendar and Nissan 22, 5785 on the Jewish calendar—shortly after our sunrise worship service, asked about the connection between Passover and the Passion of Christ.
    What began as a simple answer unfolded into something much deeper: a shared meditation on memory, freedom, and the sheltering love of God.

    As a Jew who walks in the teachings of Jesus, I’ve long felt the beauty and tension between these two great traditions. I don’t write as a scholar or theologian, but as someone standing with one foot in each world, trying to walk the path of remembrance and light.

    This piece is offered in that spirit—of honoring the Lord’s Pesach, and of listening for the ways our stories echo, overlap, and draw us into something greater than ourselves.

    The Lord’s Pesach: A Shelter, Not Just a Passing

    In the Jewish tradition, we are commanded by God to eat matzah for seven days in remembrance of the Exodus. The Torah instructs us to tell the story—not simply to fulfill a commandment, but to celebrate our freedom and to bear witness to what God has done.
    As it says in Exodus 12:11:
    “And thus shall you eat it: with your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it in haste—it is the Lord’s Pesach.”

    Traditionally translated as “Passover,” the word Pesach is often understood as God “passing over” the homes of the Israelites. But the Hebrew root suggests more than just skipping or avoiding—it can also imply hovering, protecting, sheltering.
    In this light, the Lord’s Pesach becomes not just an event, but an act of divine protection. God does not merely skip over danger—He covers, shelters, and claims His people as His own.

    This interpretation makes the story not only about deliverance from death, but entry into divine care. The Israelites are brought not only out of slavery, but into the shelter of God’s presence.

    Jesus and the Commandment to Remember

    Jesus himself was Jewish. He lived his life in faithful obedience to the commandments of his Father. As he says in John 15:10:
    “I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in His love.”

    This includes the commandment to celebrate Passover. Jesus observed Pesach throughout his life—not symbolically, but as a sacred act of remembrance and obedience.
    The Last Supper, which Christians commemorate on Holy Thursday, was almost certainly a Passover meal. Jesus would have eaten matzah, spoken the blessings, and told the story of the Exodus, just as his ancestors did.

    For those who seek to follow Jesus, remembering the Passover is more than a historical curiosity—it is a way of walking as he walked. To sit at the table of remembrance, to bless the bread, to share in the story of liberation, is to honor what he honored.

    To celebrate these holy days and remember these stories is to enter the same shelter Jesus knew: the Lord’s Pesach.

    A Shared Rhythm of Remembrance

    In the Christian tradition, Jesus is seen as the Lamb of God, whose sacrifice brings salvation. And just as the Israelites were saved by the blood of the lamb on their doorposts, Christians believe they are saved by the blood of Jesus, poured out during the Passion.

    In both stories, salvation is not merely escape—it is entry. Entry into God’s care, God’s love, God’s shelter.
    The Lord’s Pesach is not just about death passing over—it is about the people of God being drawn in.

    Whether in the Exodus or at the Cross, the message is the same:
    We are not only saved from something—we are saved into something.
    We are drawn into the Lord’s Pesach.
    Into His shelter.
    Into His presence.

    Grafted Into the Story: The Deeper Parallel

    To more fully answer Roger’s question: What is the connection between Passover and the Passion of Christ?

    The parallel is striking—and for many, transformative.

    In the Exodus, the Israelites are enslaved in Egypt, crying out under oppression. God sends Moses, His anointed one, to lead them out. On the night of liberation, they mark their doors with the blood of the lamb, and God shelters them under His Pesach.

    In the Passion, Jesus—also anointed by God—is understood by Christians as the one who leads humanity out of spiritual bondage: from sin, from darkness, from fear. His blood, too, is a sign—not on doorposts, but on the cross.

    Romans 11 speaks of the Gentiles being grafted into the house of Israel. They are not separate from the story—they are brought into it.
    They, too, are invited to remember, to eat the bread, to trust in the God who delivers.

    So just as Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, Jesus leads souls out of despair and into life.
    Just as the Israelites crossed the sea, Christians speak of passing through death into resurrection.

    In both, the story is one of liberation and belonging—of entering the Lord’s Pesach.
    And in that shelter, there is room for all.

    The Mixed Multitude: A People Born in Faith

    One more sacred detail is often missed in retellings of the Exodus: it was not only the tribes of Jacob who left Egypt.

    Exodus 12:38 tells us:
    A mixed multitude went up also with them…

    This means that many Egyptians—and perhaps others living in bondage—joined the Israelites in their flight from slavery. These were people who turned away from the gods of Egypt and aligned themselves with the God of Israel.
    And this wasn’t a casual shift—it was dangerous.

    The lamb, which God commanded them to sacrifice, was sacred in Egyptian religion.
    To slaughter it openly, smear its blood on their homes, and eat it as a sacred meal was an act of defiance.
    It was, in every sense, a risk of their lives.

    But those who obeyed, those who joined in that dangerous obedience, were welcomed.
    They became part of the people of God.
    The Exodus was not only the birth of a nation—it was the formation of a people drawn together not by bloodline, but by faith.

    A Student of Jesus

    For myself, I sometimes say I’m not a Christian—I’m a student of Jesus.
    In the early days, there were no denominations, no “Christians” in the modern sense. There were simply those who followed Jesus, who tried to walk as he walked.

    I am a Jew who aspires to follow Jesus—not as someone who left Judaism, but as someone who fulfilled the Torah by living it with love, with courage, and with truth. That means honoring the path he walked: celebrating Passover, remembering the commandments, loving the God of Israel with heart, soul, and strength.

    Do I do this perfectly? Not at all. I am not Orthodox, and I fall short in many ways.
    But I remember what Jesus said—that “the greatest commandments” are these:

    “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might,” and
    “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

    This, he said, is the heart of the law. And it’s also the place where Jewish and Christian hearts can meet.

    Whether we celebrate Passover or Easter—or both—we are called to remember.
    We are called to love.
    And we are called to dwell in the shelter of the Lord’s Pesach.

    A Light to the Nations: The True Good News

    As we reflect on the call to dwell in the shelter of the Lord’s Pesach, we are also reminded that we are not only invited into God’s protection—we are sent into the world as bearers of light.

    This has always been the calling of the people of Israel:

    Isaiah 49:6
    “I will also make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.”

    Isaiah 42:6
    “I, the Lord, have called you in righteousness… and will appoint you as a covenant to the people, as a light for the nations.”

    This same call echoes in the teachings of Jesus:
    Matthew 5:14
    “You are the light of the world.”

    And the “good news” begins not with death, but with birth:

    Luke 2:10–11
    “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people: Today in the city of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.”

    This is the heart of it:
    Not punishment, but presence.
    Not fear, but joy.
    Not separation, but shelter.
    A savior is born. God is near.
    And we are called to reflect that nearness—to be a light, to carry the remembrance, and to proclaim the sheltering love of the Lord’s Pesach.

    A Closing Prayer

    Holy One, Shelter of all,

    We remember what You have done—
    in Egypt, in Jerusalem, in our own lives.
    You bring us out of fear, out of bondage,
    and draw us into Your shelter,
    into Your Pesach, again and again.

    We give thanks for every tradition
    that helps us remember You.
    For every soul who walks in light.
    For every story that carries hope.

    May we be faithful to the path of love—
    to keep the commandments of compassion,
    to honor the bread of remembrance,
    and to share the light we have been given.

    We await, with our ancestors and our children,
    the healing of the world—Tikkun Olam—
    a new heaven, a new earth,
    where all dwell in peace under the shelter of Your wings.

    Amen.

    🙏🕊🙏

  • From Separation to Union: Rediscovering the Boundless Presence of God

    From Separation to Union: Rediscovering the Boundless Presence of God

    “In the beginning, Elohim created the heavens and the earth.” (Genesis 1:1)

    Introduction: The Question of Elohim

    These opening words of the Bible are familiar to millions. Yet hidden within them lies a mystery often overlooked. Why does the text use Elohim, a plural form, rather than a singular name for God? Is this merely a grammatical curiosity, or does it point toward something deeper—something vast, formless, beyond the limitations of human thought?

    For centuries, many have understood God as a being—separate, external, anthropomorphized. The image of an old man on a throne has dominated religious imagination, reinforcing the belief in a distant deity who governs creation from afar. But what if this is only a veil over a deeper truth? What if Elohim points not to a being among beings, but to the boundless reality itself—the Ein Sof of Kabbalah, the nameless and formless essence beyond all concept?

    This essay is an invitation to step beyond the veil. To move from separation to union, from belief to direct experience. To rediscover what the mystics across traditions have always known: that God is not elsewhere. God is here, now, and always—within and beyond, closer than breath, vaster than thought.

    The Illusion of Separation

    Throughout history, religion has provided humanity with stories, images, and rituals to help navigate the mystery of existence. Yet, in doing so, it has often externalized the divine, creating a subject-object duality—God as a being, separate from creation, separate from us.

    This duality is at the root of suffering. When we see ourselves as apart from the divine, we feel exiled, adrift in a world where God is distant and we are left to struggle alone. This belief in separation has led to fear, to longing, to a desperate seeking for something outside of ourselves that can restore what feels missing.

    But what if nothing was ever missing? What if the separation is only a misunderstanding, a veil drawn over the truth of our oneness with the Infinite?

    The Path of Direct Experience

    The great mystics—those who have peered beyond the veil—have all spoken of a reality beyond belief.

    St. John of the Cross, in his Dark Night of the Soul, describes a journey where all concepts, images, and even the felt presence of God are stripped away. This is not a loss but a purification, a burning away of false idols so that the soul may awaken to the unmediated presence of the divine.

    In the Jewish tradition, the Kabbalists speak of bitul, the nullification of ego, where one dissolves into the infinite Ein Sof, realizing that there never was a separate self to begin with. Similarly, in the contemplative traditions of Buddhism, the stillness of shamatha leads to the recognition of the pristine mind—that which has always been pure, unconditioned, free.

    In every tradition, we find this same invitation: to stop seeking outward and to turn inward, to surrender not to belief, but to direct encounter. To see that God is not an external entity, but the very ground of our being.

    The Return to Oneness

    When we let go of the illusion of separation, what remains?

    Not the loss of self, but its fulfillment. Not an annihilation into emptiness, but a merging into fullness—the great I Am. The “yoga” of the Vedic tradition means precisely this: union. It is the recognition that we were never apart from God, only dreaming that we were.

    This is not an esoteric teaching reserved for monks and mystics. It is the birthright of every human being. It is what Jesus meant when he said, “The kingdom of God is within you.” It is what the Psalmist knew when he wrote, “Be still, and know that I am God.” It is what every human heart longs for—not a distant deity, but the felt truth of divine presence, here and now.

    Tikkun Olam: Healing the World Through Remembrance

    When we remember our oneness with the divine, we heal not only ourselves but the world.

    The Kabbalistic tradition of Tikkun Olam, the healing of the world, is not merely about fixing external problems. It is about restoring divine unity—within ourselves, within society, within creation. The suffering of the world is the suffering of separation. The healing of the world is the return to wholeness.

    This is why this message matters. Not as an intellectual exercise, not as a theological debate, but as the most urgent and necessary work of our time. The world does not need more beliefs about God. It needs people who have remembered their divinity. People who, knowing themselves as inseparable from the infinite, act with wisdom, love, and compassion.

    This is the path of return. Not by striving, not by effort, but by surrendering to the truth that has always been. The Elohim of Genesis was never a separate being. Ein Sof has never been absent. The I Am has never ceased to be what it is.

    All that remains is to awaken.

    Conclusion: The Invitation

    If these words stir something in you, it is because they are already known. The recognition of divine oneness is not something to be attained—it is something to be remembered.

    Wherever you are, whatever your path, the invitation is the same:

    Be still. Let go. And know that you are already home.

    Addendum: Searching for What Is Already Here

    This morning, I took the cream cheese out of the fridge, opened it up, and placed a bagel into the toaster, getting everything prepared for a delicious breakfast. A simple task.

    Then, as my bagel toasted, I opened the fridge again to grab the cream cheese. But it wasn’t there.

    I checked every shelf. Nothing.

    I stood there, puzzled. I know I had cream cheese yesterday. Did I finish it? Did it somehow disappear?

    And then I turned around.

    There it was—right on the counter, exactly where I had left it, sitting open and waiting for me.

    I couldn’t help but laugh.

    How often do we search for something that was never missing? How often do we look for God as if He were distant—forgetting that the divine presence, like my misplaced cream cheese, has been right here all along?

    The moment we stop searching, we arrive.

    And sometimes, the path to enlightenment is as simple as laughing at yourself while spreading cream cheese on a bagel.

    🙏🕊🙏