7 takeaways from this study

Exodus 16, Isaiah 58, Mark 2, and other passages of Scripture help shape our understanding of שַׁבָּת Shabbat (Sabbath), trust in Heaven, preparation for appointments with God, and the delight of a relationship with the Holy One, blessed be He, through our Messiah, יֵשׁוּעַ Yeshua (Jesus). Let’s walk together through these ancient lessons and see how they speak directly to our lives as followers of Yeshua.

What do we do when we go looking for “manna” and “lamp oil” — after Heaven has taught us to store them up — and there is none to be found? Some say Shabbat (Sabbath) is one of the “lighter matters of the Law,” compared to “weightier matters such as justice, mercy, faith, and the love of God” (Mt 23:23).

Heaven, however, teaches that Shabbat is intimately connected to the Torah’s commandments to show mercy to our fellow human beings and even to our animals (Isa 58:13–14; Mk 2:23–28). It is bound to mercy (“ox in the ditch,” rest for workers and animals), faith (double manna on the sixth day, none on the seventh), and loving God “with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength” (Dt 6:4).

When we think of Shabbat, many people imagine a simple break from work, a set of do’s and don’ts. Yet, as Isaiah 58:13–14 tells us, Shabbat is so much more. It’s is an עֹנֶג oneg (“delight”), not a burden. The prophet Isaiah says:

If because of the sabbath, you turn your foot from doing your own pleasure on My holy day, and call the sabbath a delight (עֹנֶג oneg), the holy day of the LORD honorable … then you will take delight in the LORD….

Shabbat is a taste of the world to come, a reminder that our lives are not solely about productivity but about delighting in the Creator Himself. The Torah command (Exodus 20:8–11) and its echoes in Mark 2:27–28 — “Yeshua said to them, ‘The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath. Therefore the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath’” (ἄνθρωπος anthrōpos, “man”; σαββάτου sabbatou, “Sabbath”) — frame Shabbat not as a chore, but as a gracious gift and a foundation of trust.

Many in our modern world, myself included, find ourselves caught in the trap of constant productivity—always doing, always striving. Technology has made us more productive, but it has not made us less busy and robs us of margin. Shabbat calls us back to breathe, to rest, and to root ourselves in God’s provision (שַׁדַּי Shaddai, “the Almighty”).

Exodus 16 is a foundational story for us. The Israelites learn to trust God’s daily provision through the miracle of manna (מָן man, “What is it?”). Listen to Moses’ words:

He said to them, “This is what the LORD meant: Tomorrow is a sabbath observance, a holy sabbath to the LORD. Bake what you will bake and boil what you will boil, and all that is left over put aside to be kept until morning.”

God commands collecting extra manna on the sixth day (yom shishi) so that His people can truly rest on the seventh. When some go out looking for manna on Shabbat, they find none — a vivid lesson that His provision is both abundant and timely. On the other hand, when the Israelites looked for manna on the seventh day—though they had been instructed to gather double on the sixth—they found none, revealing the consequences of disregarding divine instruction.

We are invited not to anxiously hoard, nor to worry, but to trust that His instruction is good, and that rest is part of His good gift.

This cycle of working hard when it is time, preparing ahead and then ceasing in obedience to His word is woven into our spiritual DNA. As part of the Shema (Dt 6:4ff) reminds us:

אָהַבְתָּ אֵת יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ בְּכָל־לְבָבְךָ
ahavta et Adonai Elohecha b’chol l’vavcha

“You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might” (Deuteronomy 6:5 NASB 1995)

Another passage that speaks strongly to our calling is the parable of the ten virgins in Matthew 25:1–13. Five wise virgins (παρθέναι φρόνιμοι parthenai phronimoi) keep oil (ἔλαιον elaion, “oil”) ready for their lamps, while five foolish virgins (παρθέναι μωραί parthenai mōrai) do not. This story lines up with Exodus 16: be prepared, be watchful, for you do not know when the bridegroom (νυμφίος nymphios) will come. The foolish virgins discover too late that oil cannot be obtained at the last moment, and so they are shut out of the feast.

The punchline of the parable is clear: “Be on the alert then, for you do not know the day nor the hour” (Matthew 25:13 NASB 1995). But this readiness is not just about activity; it’s relational. Just before the punchline, Yeshua says, “Truly I say to you, I do not know you” (οὐκ οἶδα ὑμᾶς ouk oida hymas; Mt 25:12). Readiness, then, is founded on knowing Him intimately, not just having the right “supplies.”

These stories call us to repentance, renewed dependence on God, and a willingness to learn from missed opportunities to align ourselves with His timing. We prepare for the feast by getting to know the Bridegroom. John and Abigail Adams, who exchanged letters for decades, showed how steadfast communication deepens love. In our relationship with Yeshua, we lift our concerns to Him in prayer and read His letter to us in Scripture.

Exodus 16 and Matthew 25:1–13 both teach that God’s provision requires active engagement. We are not called to passively accept His provision but to seek it and extend it to others. When the Israelites sought manna on the seventh day, despite the clear command, they found none. God was teaching them to trust His word and His promises. Similarly, the foolish virgins learned that spiritual preparedness cannot be rushed. There is no last-minute shortcut to relationship—whether with people or with God.

Biblically, relationship trumps ritual. We’re reminded that knowing God (יָדַע yada, “to know”) is about more than studying facts or traditions. It is about connection, communication and trust (faith). This is woven throughout Torah and renewed powerfully through Yeshua the Messiah.

Just as the Israelites had to “gather” manna daily, we are called to seek spiritual nourishment — a living relationship, not mere formality. Our lamp oil is not just our deeds but our abiding fellowship with God through Yeshua (John 15:5).

We keep these relationships strong through prayer (תְּפִלָּה tefillah), reading the Word, and community. Like friends or spouses writing letters back and forth to maintain and deepen their relationship, prayer is like our sending a letter to Heaven, and the Scriptures are God’s letters in return.

We also get messages by the Spirit, but Scripture reminds us:

Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world.

This two-way dialogue is what turns knowledge into relationship. As apostle Paul writes: “But if anyone loves God, he is known by Him” (1Corinthians 8:3 NASB 1995).

Some people might consider Shabbat and other Torah commandments as lightweight in comparison to the serious “weightier matters of the Torah” — justice (מִשְׁפָּט mishpat), mercy (רַחֲמִים rachamim), faith (אֱמוּנָה emunah). Love (אַהֲבָה ahavah) wraps around all three:

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier provisions of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness; but these are the things you should have done without neglecting the others.”

Yeshua is not saying that tithing is unimportant or that careful obedience is wrong. Rather, He warns against using one Torah observance to neglect another. Both the tithe and the Shabbat remind us that everything we possess comes from God. Because all we have is from Him, gratitude and obedience serve our own good.

Shabbat teaches us to pause and notice those around us — the widow, the orphan, even the stranger and our animals (cf. Exodus 20:8–11; Deuteronomy 5:14). How can we claim to honor God if we lack compassion for His creation or ignore injustice around us? As Isaiah 58:3ff emphasizes, true fasting and Sabbath delight are tied to undoing the bonds of injustice and caring for our neighbors.

Proverbs 6:6–8 draws a parallel with the industrious ant (נְמָלָה nemalah):

“Go to the ant, O sluggard, observe her ways and be wise, which, having no chief, officer or ruler, prepares her food in the summer and gathers her provision in the harvest.”

In the same way, the wise in Messiah prepare not simply to survive, but to thrive spiritually. Like the Israelites gathering manna for Shabbat, we work diligently while it is day (cf. John 9:4). But this is always paired with trust (בִּטָּחוֹן bitachon), knowing that in the end, it is not by our might (חַיִל chayil), but by His Spirit (רוּחַ ruach):

“Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,” says the LORD of hosts.

This was in the context of the prophecy–parable of the “two witness” of the olive trees feeding the menorah, a symbol of the eyes of Heaven on the actions of His people (Zechariah 4:10). Zerubbabel was commissioned to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem and carried it out, but Heaven brought that to success against intense opposition.

Shabbat is not a solitary event — it is a communal gift. In our discussion, we are reminded that Shabbat rest is to be extended to family, workers, animals, and strangers (Exodus 20:10). The rest we are called to is holistic: it’s physical, spiritual, and relational.

Scripture describes Shabbat as a delight (Hebrew: עֹנֶג oneg in Isaiah 58, meaning exquisite pleasure or luxury; LXX Greek: τρυφή tryphē, enjoyment), and links it directly to justice, mercy, faith, and love. On Shabbat we look forward not only to a good meal but to fellowship with other believers. It is a celebration of community.

This lesson is echoed in the teaching on tithing (מַעֲשֵׂר ma’aser) — returning a portion to God acknowledges that every blessing comes from Him and builds care for those in need. Yeshua himself pointed to the interconnectedness of loving God and loving others, embodied in the communal rhythms of Shabbat: we rest, we feast, we worship, we share.

Our fear that we will lack something if we follow God’s instructions about tithing and Shabbat is unfounded. Daniel’s three friends trusted God to deliver them from the furnace, yet even if He did not, they preferred fellowship with Him over fellowship with the world. Esther showed similar courage, choosing truth over deception.

Shabbat and tithe, then, are not just “rules” but avenues for blessing, connection and witness — reminders that we are custodians and channels, not owners, of God’s goodness.

There is both an active and passive element to faith. On the one hand, Sabbath calls us to act (by preparing in advance like gathering a double portion of manna), and on the other, to cease from acting:

הַרְפּוּ וּדְעוּ כִּי אָנֹכִי אֱלֹהִים
har’pu u’de’u ki anochi Elohim

“Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10 NASB 1995)

As we discussed, sometimes we struggle to be still in a noisy, restless world. But trust (אֱמוּנָה emunah) means learning contentment (שָׁלוֹם shalom, peace), even when provision isn’t visible or immediate. As in the days after the exile, when the prophets fell silent and many wondered if Heaven still heard, the call remained to trust in His faithfulness — God is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8).

The parables, laws, and stories we’ve studied all point to one thing: seeking first the Kingdom (מַלְכוּת שָׁמַיִם malchut shamayim) and His righteousness (Matt 6:33). We are called to work and to rest; to prepare, but also to trust; to delight and to show mercy; to know God and to be known by Him.

Yeshua’s invitation is to rest in Him, to bear His yoke, and to find shalom for our souls:

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”

When we face seasons in which manna seems absent and the lamp oil runs low, Heaven invites us not into fear but into fellowship. The wilderness stories and Yeshua’s parables remind us that scarcity is never a sign of God’s abandonment; it is a summons to draw nearer to the One who provides both the bread and the oil. The people who sought manna on the seventh day learned that trust is built by taking God at His word. The virgins who neglected their oil learned that relationship cannot be manufactured at the last moment. Both lessons point us back to the Bridegroom Himself.

Shabbat embodies this same call to trust and intimacy. It teaches us to rest because God sustains us, to refrain from striving because He has already given what we need, and to delight in Him because He delights to dwell among His people. Rest becomes an act of faith, mercy becomes a form of worship, and preparation becomes an expression of love.

As we walk with Messiah, may we learn to gather what He offers in its season, to rest when He commands us to rest, and to nurture the oil of continual fellowship with Him. Let every perceived lack turn our eyes toward the true Bread of Life, every delay draw us deeper into His presence, and every Shabbat remind us that His provision, His timing, and His love are always enough.

May we be found ready, watching, and richly supplied with the oil of His Spirit when the Bridegroom comes. Let’s step into each week prepared — rested, alert, nourished — and ready for the blessings He desires to pour out. Shabbat shalom!

7 takeaways from this study

One of the Bible’s most resonant instructions is, “Do not fear.” In Hebrew, it’s “אַל־תִּירָא” al-tira. This phrase and its variations thread through the stories of Israel, the teachings of the prophets, the words of Messiah Yeshua (Christ Jesus), and on into the Apostolic Writings.

This journey is more than academic. It’s personal and communal, rooted in the movements of our people and echoed in our own individual walks. The exhortation to trust Adonai (the LORD) despite what surrounds us is as timely today as it was in the days when Israel’s back was to the sea. Let’s walk through these scriptures, lessons, and our lived experience, finding inspiration to live al-tira — without fear — anchored in faith, hope and love.

This study focuses on Exodus 13–15, as Israel was hemmed in at the edge of the sea. It’s an archetype for the moments when we too are boxed in by circumstances.

“But Moses said to the people, ‘Do not fear! Stand by and see the salvation of the LORD (יְשׁוּעַת יְהוָה Yeshuat Adonai) which He will accomplish for you today…’”

Notice that Israel wasn’t told to whip up courage by their own strength, but instead to “stand” — to trust in Adonai’s deliverance יְשׁוּעַ Yeshua (“salvation”). In fact, throughout the wilderness, from the Red Sea to Sinai and onward, the phrase al-tira is repeated. If you count each variation — including the times Adonai (YHWH, the LORD) commissioned יְהוֹשֻׁעַ Yehoshua (Joshua, “Yah is salvation”) — it appears at least 14–15 times. Each time, it addresses a real threat and a real fear, but points the response straight at faith.

“Do not fear or be dismayed.”

This is more than literary repetition. It’s a compassionate, fatherly reassurance that speaks not only to our heads, but to our hearts and our whole life.

Just over a month ago we celebrated סֻכּוֹת Sukkot (Festival of Tabernacles), the festival remembering God’s dwelling (שָׁכַן shakan, “to dwell”) with us. Sukkot is about hope — about God’s ultimate desire to restore what was lost in the Garden of Eden, to reconnect Heaven and Earth. This “tabernacling” — God pitching His tent among mankind (John 1:14) —reminds us that His presence is the antidote to fear.

Even today as we recall these truths, we can find freedom in knowing that the goal isn’t merely to escape danger, but to dwell with the Creator, to be led as Israel was by the pillar: “a pillar of leading both in front of and as a barrier behind.” God’s presence shields and guides.

One of my biggest takeaways is that fear isn’t merely something to banish; trials are a refining process. We read in Exodus 15:2: “The LORD is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” Each hardship, each moment when resources run out and we come to the end of ourselves, is an invitation to honor and glorify God. These moments press us into deeper reliance on Him.

Trials refine us. They build us. They help us to mature.

This refining isn’t easy — but it brings us to “stand by and see Yeshuat Adonai” — “the salvation of the LORD.” Just as in ancient times, we’re invited to see that our salvation is not our own doing.

In our study, we uncovered a fascinating play on Hebrew words. The verbs “to fear” (יָרֵא yareʼ) and “to see” (רָאָה raʼah) share similar letters. The same three letters (י-ר-א) show up in both concepts — notably, with the verb inflection יַרְא yare, “he saw” — suggesting that seeing the LORD, being aware of His presence, is fundamental to having the right kind of fear, of reverence.

Many prophets warned that rebellious people in Israel claimed Adonai doesn’t see what they were doing, yet indeed the LORD does see. A healthy “fear of the LORD” (יִרְאַת יְהוָה Yirat Adonai) is not about being frightened, but about living in the awareness that God sees, knows — and cares.

The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction.

It’s a relational fear — a deep respect for not wanting to break connection with God, more than dreading His judgment.

Almost two months ago when we celebrated יוֹם כִּפּוּר Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, it was clear: even all the sacrifices and acts at the מִשְׁכָּן Mishkan (“dwelling place,” i.e., the Tabernacle”) cannot cover every transgression. The ultimate lesson is clear — salvation (יְשׁוּעָה yeshuah) is only from the LORD, and His Yeshua.

On Yom Kippur, we recognize that none of our own efforts can truly bridge the gap. It is only by God’s grace and initiative.

As Israel moved through the wilderness, again and again comes this refrain: “Do not fear.” Whether it was crossing the Red Sea, standing before the walls of Jericho, or facing kings like Og and Sihon, and the inhabitants of Canaan, the challenge was the same: Will we trust ourselves, or the God who fights for us?

“Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the LORD your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.”

The lesson? Deliverance is from God, and He alone brings the victory when we are at our limits.

Our discussion brought us forward into the Apostolic Writings (בְּרִית חֲדָשָׁה Brit Chadasha), aligning with themes of endurance through suffering and the power of Messiah’s resurrection. Messiah Yeshua (Jesus) echoes the same instruction:

“Do not fear those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”

Apostle Sha’ul (Paul) reminded his disciple Timothy:

For God has not given us a spirit of timidity (δειλίας deilias, “cowardice”), but of power and love and discipline.

Through these passages, we see that God’s spirit cultivates strength, love and self-control — not paralyzing fear.

Martyrs, empowered by God, have stood firm in the face of persecution. The Greek word μαρτυρία martyria means “witness.” Martyrdom, in this sense, is the ultimate testimony of faith that light shines brightest in the darkness. Even when external freedoms are stripped away, true victory is choosing faithfulness over fear — just as the apostles did, preaching the Good News despite threats.

The kind of fear God desires is a relational awe, not servile terror. Think of it like a marriage or a close friendship. A healthy relationship is not built on dread of punishment, but a healthy concern not to damage the bond.

It is really healthy to fear that the relationship and connection will be broken because of actions we take.

This aligns with a deep dive into true love by the apostle Yokhanan (John):

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.

This “fear” — φόβος phobos — is not what God desires. Instead, He asks for love that leads to obedience, reverence, and deep relationship.

Courage is not as the absence of fear, but as acting in faith regardless of it. It’s doing the thing that God put in front of us.

So don’t be paralyzed by fear. Instead, train yourself, prepare and choose steps of faith.

“Do not be fainthearted. Do not be afraid….”

In our own lives, this means having a plan — whether for emergencies, spiritual battles, or daily challenges.

After the return of Israel’s exiles from Babylon/Persia under Nehemiah, those rebuilding Jerusalem’s walls “carried their load with one hand doing the work and the other holding a weapon…” (Nehemiah 4:17–18). The lesson is twofold: trust God, but also be prepared. Practical vigilance — both spiritual and physical — is not a lack of faith, but an outworking of it.

As we stand together, each with our skills — some “building,” some “watching out,” some “encouraging,” and all praying — we create a community where all are safer, stronger, and more supported. Paul’s “armor of God” metaphor (Ephesians 6) builds on this: put on the whole armor, gird yourself with truth, faith, and the sword of the Word.

Sometimes, we’re called to endure rather than to withdraw. Paul, about to face chains in Jerusalem (Acts 21), declared: “I am ready not only to be bound, but even to die at Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Yeshua” (Acts 21:13, paraphrased). Our group considered: when should we endure? When is it time to step away?

Yeshua’s teaching in Matthew 18 gives a process for reconciliation — attempting peace, but recognizing that at times, withdrawing or escalating a matter is necessary. The goal: endurance that seeks reconciliation where possible, with forgiveness and a heart to let go of vengeance.

We recognized the importance of boundaries — drawn from Torah’s instructions on immovable boundary stones (Deuteronomy 19:14). In our relationships, staying “vigilant as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16) is just as important. We want to serve and love, but also discern and guard our own spiritual and emotional well-being.

Discernment doesn’t mean suspicion; it means wisdom, humility, and responsible stewardship, especially for those in leadership.

There’s a triumphant promise in Romans 8:

“But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Messiah Yeshua our Lord.”

This is resilience — not denial of trials, but knowing that the worst the world can do cannot remove us from His love and purpose.

“Do not fear” — “Al-tira.” Life’s seas may seem impassable, walls may seem insurmountable, and adversity may threaten to paralyze us. But in every situation, God’s call is to stand, trust, and move forward in faith. Through suffering or deliverance, through trial or triumph, we are to remember that the LORD is our strength, our shield, and our salvation.

Let us encourage one another to be courageous — not because of our own might, but because of Yeshuat Adonai, the salvation of the LORD, goes before us and with us. Let’s practice vigilance, invest in community, set wise boundaries, pursue reconciliation, and — most importantly — treasure the relationship with our Father above all. May we trust, endure, and rejoice, knowing that nothing can separate us from His love.

We all strive to live lives of purposeful faith, echoing this across generations: “Do not fear. Stand and see the salvation of the LORD.”

7 takeaways from this study

Israel’s miraculous departure from Egypt amid plagues is a breathtaking blueprint of God’s redemptive vision for humanity. The אֶרֶב רַב erev rav (“mixed multitude”) isn’t just a footnote in biblical history; it’s a profound theological statement about who God is and how He works.

At the heart of this passage is a powerful pattern of divine protection. Just as the destroyer passed over homes marked by faith during the first Passover (Exodus 12:23), there’s a larger metaphorical judgment coming — the Day of the LORD -— where God will separate and protect His people (referenced in Revelation).

The blood on the doorposts wasn’t just a survival strategy; it was a profound statement of trust, effectively saying, “Lord, we believe you will protect us from destruction.” This mirrors the broader spiritual principle of faith in divine protection during times of judgment.

The Hebrew verb אֶרֶב erev means “to mix” or “to mingle,” and רַב rav means “great” or “many.” These weren’t just a few stragglers, but a significant group traveling with Israel. Medieval commentators like Rashi saw them as potential converts, reflecting God’s expansive redemptive plan.

Some viewed them skeptically. Ibn Ezra suggested they might be the “riff-raff” (Num. 11:4) who would later cause trouble. The golden calf incident was also blamed on this mixed multitude, with their practices seemingly reflecting Egyptian idol worship.

Exodus 12:43-45 provides fascinating insights into covenant membership. The text distinguishes between:

The requirements for full participation were clear: circumcision, commitment, and spiritual alignment.

The prophets dramatically expanded this vision of inclusion. Isaiah 56:3-8 beautifully declares that foreigners who commit to God’s covenant will be welcomed into His house. Zechariah 2:10-11 prophesies that many nations will join themselves to the Lord.

These weren’t just nice sentiments. They were revolutionary declarations that God’s redemptive plan transcends ethnic boundaries.

The apostle Paul powerfully articulates this in Romans 2:28-29 and Romans 9:6-7. True identity isn’t about external markers but internal transformation. A true “Israelite” is one who is circumcised in heart, not just in flesh.

This echoes the encounter in John 1:43-51, where Yeshua recognizes Nathanael as a true Israelite “without deceit” — someone genuinely seeking God.

While inclusion is beautiful, it’s not about creating a spiritual “smoothie” where incompatible beliefs are blended indiscriminately. The call is to fully commit, to leave behind practices incompatible with God’s covenant.

This isn’t about erasing cultural identity but about finding a deeper, more profound identity in God’s family.

The vision is radical: a house of prayer for all nations, where distinctions of origin fade before the transformative power of divine love. It’s an invitation to belong, not as second-class members, but as fully adopted children.

Exodus 12’s mixed multitude is more than a historical footnote. It’s a prophetic promise that God’s redemptive plan is infinitely more expansive than we often imagine.

The invitation remains: Come, be grafted in. Leave behind what separates. Embrace a new identity rooted in divine love.

7 takeaways from this study

Though the annual celebration of Pesach/Pesakh (Passover) is be months away, its message is more urgent now than ever. Our world faces challenges and divisions — both spiritual and societal — that echo those first calls to deliverance from bondage. These ancient words vividly alive, calling us to sincerity, unity and wholeness within the body of believers in the Messiah (Mashiach, Christ).

“Now this day will be a memorial to you, and you shall celebrate it as a feast to the Lord; throughout your generations you are to celebrate it as a permanent ordinance.”

Pesach is not just a memorial for the “native-born” (ezrach) of Israel, but for all who align themselves with God’s redemptive work—even those, like myself, who come to faith in Messiah Yeshua (Jesus) and recognize His atoning sacrifice as the fulfillment of the Passover lamb.

We’re told to remember — not just with our minds but with the rhythm of our calendar and the retelling to our children. God’s act of deliverance wasn’t a one-time event locked in history; it was (and is) an ongoing reality for every person liberated by His mighty hand (Exodus 12:24-27).

Paul, writing to the congregation in Corinth — a community of both Jews and Gentiles — draws a direct link from the Passover lamb to the Messiah:

Clean out the old leaven so that you may be a new lump, just as you are in fact unleavened. For Christ our Passover also has been sacrificed. Therefore let us celebrate the feast, not with old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

This is a radical, inclusive statement. The lamb’s blood, affixed to the lintel and doorposts, once marked Israelite households for mercy (Exodus 12:22-23). But in Messiah, both Jews (Yehudim) and those from the goyim (nations) who are “grafted in” (Romans 11:17) share in this redemption. The matzah (unleavened bread) we eat isn’t just a symbol of haste; it is a reminder to purge chametz (leaven) — which represents malice (ra) and wickedness (resha) — and to embrace a life of emet (truth) and tamimut (sincerity).

Paul uses a profound metaphor for our unity: the olive tree. Israel is depicted as the cultivated olive tree, planted by Adonai Himself, with the Messiah as its root.

But if some of the branches were broken off, and you, being a wild olive, were grafted in among them and became partaker with them of the rich root of the olive tree, do not be arrogant toward the branches… it is not you who supports the root, but the root supports you.

It’s tempting — especially for those coming from the nations—to see themselves as the “new Israel” or, for those in Jewish community, to see Gentile believers as outsiders or less-than. But the Word says otherwise: both natural branches and wild branches have equal significance, provided we remain attached by faith and humility (emunah and anavah).

The Hebrew root qadash (“to separate, set apart”) gives us kadosh/qadosh — meaning “holy” or “set apart.” Far from implying superiority or exclusivism, qadosh means separated for purpose, for bringing God’s light into the world (see Leviticus 20:26).

Genesis demonstrates how God repeatedly separates light from darkness (Genesis 1:4; Isaiah 42:6-7), calling Abraham out of idolatrous Ur, and later Israel out of Egypt’s bondage. Each act of deliverance, command, and festival — especially Pesach — is about this divine separation.

Like many of you, I wrestle with what needs “draining out” (matzah connects to a root meaning “to drain/suck out”) in my life. What leaven—hidden pride, bitterness, old ways—do I need to leave behind to walk in qadosh?

The Exodus narrative is not only about deliverance but also transformation. The blood of the pesach lamb protected Israel’s firstborn, but the journey after the blood was painted wasn’t instant or easy. It took 40 years — and many struggles in the wilderness — for true freedom to take root (Exodus 12:37, Numbers 14:33–34).

Paul reminds us in Colossians, “For He rescued us from the domain of darkness, and transferred us to the kingdom of His beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins” (Colossians 1:13–14 NASB 1995). Leaving Egypt is only the first step; learning to live free, and to fill our lives with God’s Spirit rather than old habits, is a lifelong journey.

Paul calls the community of believers the “commonwealth of Israel” (politeia tou Israel; Ephesians 2:12), a confederation of native-born Jews and those grafted in. Like the Commonwealth of Great Britain, it’s not about erasing differences but about shared purpose, support and mutual blessing.

Messiah’s vision is not a “church” replacing Israel but a family — rooted in Torah, prophets, and the Messiah’s teachings — expanding to welcome all.

After all, the Greek word translated church in the New Testament is ἐκκλησία ekklesia. In the Septuagint (Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures, aka LXX) that translates קְהַל qahal, or assembly or congregation of Israel, prophets, etc. (Deut. 4:10; 9:10; 18:16; 23:2-4, 9; 31:30; Josh. 8:35; Judg. 20:2; 21:5, 8; 1Sam. 17:47; 19:20; 1Kings 8:14, 22, 55, 65; 1Chr. 13:2, 4; 28:2, 8; 29:1, 10, 20; 2Chr. 1:3, 5; 6:3, 12-13; 7:8; 10:3; 20:5, 14; 23:3; 28:14; 29:23, 28, 31-32; 30:2, 4, 13, 17, 23-25; Ezra 2:64; 10:1, 8, 12, 14; Neh. 5:7, 13; 7:66; 8:2, 17; 13:1; Judith 6:16, 21; 7:29; 14:6; 1Mac. 2:56; 3:13; 4:59; 5:16; 14:19; Psa. 21:23, 26; 25:5, 12; 34:18; 39:10; 67:27; 88:6; 106:32; 149:1; Prov. 5:14; Job 30:28; Sir. 15:5; 21:17; 23:24; 24:2; 26:5; 31:11; 33:19; 38:33; 39:10; 44:15; 46:7; 50:13, 20; Sol. 10:6; Mic. 2:5; Joel 2:16; Lam. 1:10).

There is a real danger, Paul warns, of either group becoming arrogant — whether it’s those from the nations looking down on “natural” branches, or Jews scorning new believers as late arrivals.

Do not be arrogant toward the branches; but if you are arrogant, remember that it is not you who supports the root, but the root supports you… Do not be conceited, but fear; for if God did not spare the natural branches, He will not spare you, either.

Humility (anavah) is the keeping force of the community. We must be careful of pride in our journey from our Mitzraim (Egypt, “house of bondage”) to freedom in Heaven’s rest. We can tell ourselves, “I’ve got the true perspective!” Then we’re corrected — if we’re listening — by the Ruach HaKodesh (Holy Spirit) or a caring word from a brother or sister in Messiah.

In a world tempted to “blend everything together” — religion, truth, ethics — it is vital to be able to distinguish between light (or) and darkness (choshech/khoshekh), as Scripture teaches from creation onward.

If we blur the lines and accept a mixture instead of separation, we invite confusion and ultimately spiritual decline (see Ezekiel 22:26; Hebrews 5:14). Yeshua Himself speaks of discernment — “You are the light of the world” (Matthew 5:14) — calling His followers to be distinctly different, distinctly qadosh.

A subject we cannot ignore is the persistence of anti-Semitism, sometimes cloaked within religious communities as “anti-paganism” or “anti-false doctrine.” While vigilance against false teachings is needed (Matthew 23:1-12, Romans 2-3), this must not devolve into malice or unwarranted division. The moment accusations or criticism stem from malice rather than protection, we are slipping back into the leaven of old sin.

Paul warns against being “arrogant toward the branches.” Yeshua calls us to love and to restore. In my years in Messianic community, I have seen both forms—healthy correction and toxic exclusion. Only humility and discernment can guide us rightly.

Many Christians are taught that Yeshua “abolished” or “ended” the Law, often quoting Romans 10:4: “For Christ is the end (telos, ‘goal’ or ‘aim’ in Greek) of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes.” But Yeshua’s own words clarify:

“Do not think that I came to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I did not come to abolish but to fulfill (plēroō — to fill up, make complete). For truly I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or stroke shall pass from the Law until all is accomplished. Whoever then annuls one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever keeps and teaches them, he shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.”

The same key word — plēroō — appears here:

But Jesus answering said to him, “Permit it at this time; for in this way it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”

No one would understand this verse to say that baptism brings an end to righteousness. Rather, that ceremony is at the beginning of a lifelong journey with Heaven to learn and practice righteousness. So then, Yeshua’s words in Matthew 5, in a preamble to His “Sermon on the Mount” set the stage for what He was teaching — and what His apostles such as Paul would be teaching.

Messiah’s fulfillment is not an eraser. It is the actualization and empowerment, the flowering of every prophetic expectation and festival in Torah and making it effective in the life of believers.

Scripture teaches that correction is an act of love — a sign of true family. “For those whom the Lord loves He disciplines, and He scourges every son whom He receives” (Hebrews 12:6, see also Proverbs 3:12).

As a parent lovingly disciplines a child, so Adonai (the LORD) refines and guides us — whether we are “native branches” or have been “grafted in.” Sometimes, the pruning can be painful, but it always leads toward greater fruitfulness (John 15:1-2).

As we close, I urge myself and all of you to truly consider: What needs to be “drained out” in our lives so the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth can rise? Where do we need to guard against both arrogance and apathy? How can we better pursue unity within the commonwealth of Israel, honoring both root and branch? May we be a community that walks in humility, clarity, discernment, and joyful obedience to the call of Messiah.

May your “Passover” never be just a night on the calendar, but an every day movement from bondage into God’s marvelous light.

7 takeaways from this study

This is a journey through the people’s deliverance from Mitzrayim (Egypt), through the prophetic warnings and redemptive promises of Isaiah, and into the amazing revelation of Yochanan (John) on the banks of the Jordan. Our study brings together Exodus 10–12, Isaiah 19–20, and John 1:29–34, threaded with insights from Philippians and Ephesians, all through the lens of Messiah Yeshua (Christ Jesus).

We the grafted-in and the natural branches (Romans 11:17–18) learn who we are, where we come from, and crucially who we are called to become. In our time, just like in the days of Moshe (Moses), Isaiah, and John the Immerser, the call for humility, distinction, and redemption remains louder than ever.

Only humility — עֲנָוָה anavah — prepares us for true cleansing. In the Hebrew mindset, עָנָה anah (to humble oneself) is not weakness, but an intentional bowing of the soul before the Creator. It’s the very heart of Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement):

“You shall humble (anitem) your souls.”

Moshe’s journey was, at its core, a humbling. At first, he took the law into his own hands, and the Israelites rejected him: “Who made you a prince or a judge over us?” (Exodus 2:14). Only after learning humility — allowing Adonai (the LORD) to shape him — was Moshe equipped to lead Israel out of bondage.

And then there’s Pharaoh — the living example of anti-anavah. His refusal to bow broke not only himself but an entire nation. The Torah says, “The LORD hardened (הֶחֱזִיק hekheziq) Pharaoh’s heart” (Exodus 10:20), showing us that pride leads to ruin, while surrender brings restoration.

In the Apostolic Writings (New Testament), Paul picks up this theme:

Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Messiah Yeshua, who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant… He humbled Himself (etapeinōsen, ἐταπείνωσεν) by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.

Humility isn’t just character-building. It’s world-changing. It’s the key to spiritual cleansing and preparation for the purposes God has for each of us.

Judgment and distinction are threads tightly woven through our Exodus reading. The plagues were not random punishments. Each carried specific messages — Adonai was making a distinction (בדלות havdalah) between Israel and Mitzrayim.

But all the sons of Israel had light in their dwellings.

In Hebrew, the contrast is striking: חֹשֶׁךְ khoshekh (darkness) vs. אוֹר or (light).

The plagues also challenged the false gods of Egypt: Ra the sun god (darkness), Hapi the Nile deity (waters turned to blood), and ultimately the “strength” of Egypt, its firstborn (Exodus 11–12). Yet, this judgment wasn’t for destruction alone. Through Isaiah’s prophetic vision, we discover a future hope for Mitzrayim:

“In that day there will be an altar to the Lord in the midst of the land of Egypt… He will send them a Savior (hoshia) and a Champion (rav; “Great One”), and He will deliver them… Blessed is Egypt My people, and Assyria the work of My hands, and Israel My inheritance.”

Friends, our God judges in order to redeem! Even our oppressors — be they personal, spiritual, or historic — can become part of His redemptive plan if they turn.

It’s easy to read Exodus and marvel at the miracles, but do we let the distinction between darkness and light penetrate our daily walk? Ephesians 5 echoes this timeless theme for us:

For you were formerly darkness, but now you are Light in the Lord; walk as children of Light…. Do not participate in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, but instead even expose them.

The Torah’s division of khoshekh and or (Genesis 1:3–4) isn’t just a cosmological event. It’s a spiritual reality. Darkness can be felt (Exodus 10:21), and so can light.

Yeshua urges us not to simply turn away from darkness but to intentionally abide where there is light and to become bearers of that light to the world (Matthew 5:14–16).

So, are we pressing closer to the or of Messiah or inching back toward our own personal Mitzrayim?

Throughout biblical history, nations — including Israel — fell into the trap of relying on earthly powers. Isaiah warns Judah:

“Woe to those who go down to Egypt for help and rely on horses… but they do not look to the Holy One of Israel, nor seek the LORD!”

This is more than political commentary. It’s spiritual direction. The temptation to trust human strength, wealth, leaders, or technology wasn’t just ancient Israel’s problem. It’s ours. Are we trusting our own “horses and chariots,” or the One “who made the horses”?

Romans 1 reminds us that worship of creation, rather than the Creator, leads people astray:

For they exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator….

Let’s resolve to honor the true Source of strength, salvation, and provision.

One of the most profound revelations in our study emerges from John’s Gospel:

“Behold, the Lamb of God (שֵׂה הָאֱלֹהִים seh haElohim) who takes away the sin of the world!”

The lamb isn’t just a Passover symbol. It’s also central to atonement (Leviticus 16, Yom Kippur) and points us to the suffering yet conquering Messiah.

Scripture’s imagery flips expectations: Yeshua is both the humble Lamb (ἀμνὸς amnos) and the mighty Lion (אַרְיֵה aryeh) of Judah (Revelation 5:5–6).

This combination teaches us that true authority is exercised through humility and sacrificial love. Yeshua “did not think equality with God something to be grasped… but emptied Himself” (Philippians 2:6–7).

We are invited to emulate this: “No servant is greater than his master” (John 13:16), and Yeshua’s example is to serve, wash feet, give, and sacrifice.

Another vital thread is תשובה teshuvah (repentance) — not merely turning from sin, but turning toward a new destination. In Greek, it’s μετάνοια metanoia, a change of heart and purpose.

Yochanan’s immersion (baptism) was “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Mark 1:4 NASB 1995). But it’s not enough just to turn from. What matters most is what, or Who, we turn to (John 1:29).

Repentance is not a one-time event. It’s a continual process, echoed every Pesach, every Yom Kippur, every Shabbat. Leaving “Egypt” is a daily, even hourly decision.

The prophet Hosea paints God as the one who redeems even the unfaithful spouse (Hosea 3:1–5), buying her back — not to shame, but to restore.

An astonishing takeaway from our study is that even Egypt, archetype of oppression, is not beyond redemption. Isaiah’s oracle points to a day when, “Blessed is Egypt My people” (Isaiah 19:25).

This radical mercy offers hope for anyone who sees themselves, or others, as too far gone. If Mitzrayim can become part of God’s family through turning and redemption, so can we — even those “enemies” of God’s people, even those who have hurt us.

Apostle Paul himself, once Sha’ul the prosecutor–persecutor, is a living illustration of this transformation (Acts 9). The one who fought against God’s purpose became its greatest champion through humility and surrender.

Human nature longs for comfort, even in bondage. The Israelites, freed from slavery, longed for the certainty of Egypt (Numbers 11:4–6). The TaNaKh calls this backsliding “like a dog that returns to its vomit” (Proverbs 26:11).

Messiah calls us forward—to new life, new identity, new purpose. To return to “Mitzrayim” is to run back to that which enslaved and diminished us. The New Covenant promise is not just a rescue from something, but a call into something magnificent:

“I will put My law within them and on their heart I will write it… for I will forgive their iniquity, and their sin I will remember no more.”

Humility and repentance open the door to spiritual cleansing and transformation. God judges in order to redeem, sometimes even accomplishing it through surprising means and people. We are called to walk in Heaven’s Light (the Word and the Spirit), resist the temptations of false security of this world, and live out the sacrificial love modeled by the Lamb of God.

Our challenge is both ancient and fresh: Where are we tempted to trust in “horses and chariots,” or to look back to Egypt? Are there “plagues” — patterns or habits — that God is using to free us from bondage and call us toward Him?

Let’s embrace the anavah (humility), the havdalah (distinction), and the ge’ulah (redemption) that are our inheritance in Messiah. Let’s refuse to look back and instead move forward, walking as children of the Light (Ephesians 5:8).

As the prophet Micah said:

“He has told you, O man, what is good; And what does the Lord require of you, But to do justice, to love kindness, And to walk humbly (hatznea lekhet) with your God?”

May our journey out of Mitzrayim never end at the border of the wilderness, but carry us all the way home to Heaven’s promised rest. Shalom!

7 takeaways from this study

As the Exodus unfolds, Pharaoh’s once-iron will begins to bend. In desperation, he tries to strike a bargain with God. It seems almost laughable — humanity attempting to negotiate with the One who owns everything and owes us nothing.

Pharaoh knows that the Israelites leaving Egypt would create problems for the Egyptian culture and economy, whether the Israelites were gone for a few days or forever. He is still trying to maintain control of the situation. We, however, know Who is in control at all times — God. Pharaoh believed that the one in control is the one with the biggest stick, the most money, and the greatest earthly power.

When we think with a fleshly mind, we work hard to control our own lives and even the lives of our children. But when we think with a God-centered mind, we understand that we have very little control over life’s events. We can control our own actions, but we cannot control the actions of others.

Pharaoh began his negotiation by offering to allow the Israelites to perform their sacrifices within the territory of Egypt.

False gods are appeased by tokens of obedience and token offerings, but God is not one to be appeased. God expects us to conduct ourselves according to a high standard and demands obedience, not appeasement.

There are a few examples of humans negotiating with God, but they are limited in scope. One example that comes to mind is Lot negotiating with the angel to spare a small city near Sodom and Gomorrah from destruction. Lot did not make this request to control the angels or to usurp God’s judgment; he was trying to save lives.

We see something similar in Abraham’s negotiation with God prior to the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham’s negotiation was successful because his motive was to save human life, not to gain power for himself.

Pharaoh, on the other hand, negotiated not to save lives but to preserve his own power and maintain control over others.

Pharaoh attempted to negotiate with Moses several times. Moses pointed out the flaws in his offers—first by noting that making sacrifices in Egypt would cause the Egyptians to persecute them. Then Pharaoh tried to retain control by allowing them to make sacrifices but not to go very far.

God, however, was not willing to negotiate. He continued to strip away more and more of Pharaoh’s leverage.

During the plague of hail, God, for the first time, gave the people of Egypt an opportunity to mitigate the effects of the plague. He told them that if they brought their livestock into their homes, the animals would survive and remain safe. The Egyptians were thus given a choice: to express some faith in God by obeying Moses’ warning or to ignore it and suffer the consequences.

The apostle Paul tells us that our ultimate battle is against the “principalities of the air.” Egypt, like all nations, was subject to these principalities. The Egyptians worshiped many demonic entities, and God’s defeat of particular demons created, in a sense, a power vacuum. As the people lost faith in one demon, they would place their faith in another. These events also served as a warning to the demonic realm, which wondered if God would strike them next.

The demons began to work on Pharaoh’s heart—to soften him and persuade him to capitulate to God’s demands—not to save the people of Egypt, but to preserve their access to the people’s worship. This is when God supernaturally hardened Pharaoh’s heart. God would not allow the demons to escape the consequences so easily.

Pharaoh knew what he needed to do, but his desires conflicted with his understanding of what was right. Both Pharaoh and the demonic powers behind him were trying to save themselves from God’s judgment, creating a tug-of-war that we are witnessing in the text.

In Isaiah 34, we read about God’s orchestrated destruction of Edom, just as He had systematically destroyed Egypt many generations earlier. God set events in motion to bring about Edom’s downfall in a methodical manner.

“And He will stretch over it the line of desolation And the plumb line of emptiness.”

Plumb lines are tools used to create perfectly straight and strong walls, but here God says that He will use the plumb line not to build a wall, but to destroy it.

God’s actions in the Exodus did not move the Egyptians from the worship of demons to the true and pure worship of God, but they did weaken the influence of the priests and magicians of Egypt and altered the orientation of their worship.

God’s destruction of Edom was perfect and complete. He erased them from history, and by A.D. 135, they were gone—eliminated through war and ethnic cleansing. This process began with the Babylonians around 586 B.C.

When the Jews returned to the Holy Land after the Babylonian Exile, they forced the Edomites to convert to Judaism, and the two groups intermarried. From that time forward, the Edomites fought alongside the Jews in various battles and wars, and by the time of the Roman wars, the Edomites no longer existed as a distinct nation.

God used His divine power to crush and destroy Edom as a separate nation, while at the same time using His divine power to preserve the Jewish people. He did not use genocide to eradicate the Edomites; there are still people in the world today who are descendants of Esau (Edom), but they are no longer identifiable as a distinct people. They were absorbed into the Jewish people and surrounding nations.

Why did God do this? Obadiah 1 explains the reasons God chose to punish the people of Edom so completely.

“Pursue peace with all men, and the sanctification without which no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one comes short of the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springing up causes trouble, and by it many be defiled; that there be no immoral or godless person like Esau, who sold his own birthright for a single meal. For you know that even afterwards, when he desired to inherit the blessing, he was rejected, for he found no place for repentance, though he sought for it with tears.”

Pharaoh considered himself a god and exercised power, oppressing others as though it were his divine right. Esau was a godless man who taught his descendants to be godless as well and to have no fear of God. Esau lived for himself, thinking only of his own pleasure and power. He exercised that power in the same selfish manner as Pharaoh.

Pharaoh’s attempts to maintain his power and control were futile, as God wanted Pharaoh to understand that he had no real power and nothing of value to negotiate with God.

God wiped out the Edomites as a nation — not through genocide, but for the sake of their ancestor Abraham, He orchestrated world events so that they were absorbed into the Jewish nation. Esau sought pleasure and control, and in the end, lost both. When the Apostle Paul says that Esau’s heart had no room for repentance, it was because his remorse was short-lived. He preferred to wallow in anger and fantasies of revenge against his brother instead.

God didn’t wipe out the Egyptians the way He did the Edomites because, unlike Edom, the Egyptians (outside of Pharaoh himself) showed some fear and recognition of God’s power. Pharaoh’s advisors and some Egyptians acknowledged, respected, and even feared God, while Edom remained totally godless and violent. Edom’s destruction was total because of their persistent hostility and lack of repentance, whereas Egypt’s people showed at least some openness to God, so they were not completely wiped out.

God will listen to us when we “negotiate” with Him to save lives, but He will not negotiate with us to increase our power, influence, or wealth. When we pray to God, our focus should be on saving the physical and spiritual lives of others.

God is the One who loves mankind, and everything He does is for our good. The false gods neither love humanity nor desire what is best for it. The Pharaoh of Egypt and the Edomites became like the demons and false gods they worshiped. This is why God had to humble them — and, in some cases, even wipe them out.

Pharaoh tried to bargain with God, and Esau lived as though he didn’t need Him. Both lost everything in their pride. God does not negotiate for our power or comfort — only for our repentance and mercy toward others. When we humble ourselves and seek His will, He restores what arrogance destroys.

Summary: Tammy

7 takeaways from this study

The deep hope found in Isaiah 54–56 connect so powerfully to Shemini Atzeret (Assembly of the Eighth Day) and the ongoing longing for restoration and home. Shemini Atzeret is more than just an add-on to the seven-day biblical festival of Sukkot (Booths, Tabernacles); it represents bringing everything together — a spiritual exclamation point on the season of rejoicing in the booths (Leviticus 23:36). But it’s also a moment of reflection: What have we learned about God’s character, about ourselves, and about the world He loves?

In traditional Jewish practice, Sukkot climaxes on the seventh day with Hoshana Rabbah, “the Great Supplication.” By the Second Temple period, the water drawing and pouring ceremony — the Simchat Beit HaShoevah — became a central, joyful ritual. Priests would circle the altar seven times, pour water as an offering, and the people would pray intensely for rain — both literal and spiritual (m.Sukkah 4.9).

I’m reminded of the story in John 7, where Yeshua (Jesus) went up to Jerusalem for Sukkot.

Now on the last day, the great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, ‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, “From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.”’

The term “living water” — מים חיים mayim chayim — evokes both physical refreshment and spiritual renewal. Throughout our history, water has symbolized cleansing, sustenance, and the Spirit’s presence (Ezekiel 36:25–27; cp. Jeremiah 31:31–34).

During the time of the Second Temple, not everyone agreed on these traditions. The פרושים Perushim (Pharisees) cherished the water ceremony; the צדוקים Tzedukim (Sadducees) rejected it, insisting on strictly what was written in Torah — so much that a notorious Sadducee priest, in protest, poured the water on his feet rather than the altar (Sukkah 48b). This led to an uproar — worshippers hurled their Sukkot etrogim (citrons) at him!

This isn’t just an obscure argument. It’s about how God’s people engage with tradition, the spirit behind rituals, and our yearning for God’s presence. Sometimes tradition brings us closer to God; sometimes it risks missing the point. Yeshua himself entered this context, emphasizing the heart of the water-pouring with His offer of “living water” to all who thirst.

Much of Isaiah 54–56 is written to a people in exile — displaced, disheartened, but not forgotten. The language is rich in hope:

“For the LORD has called you, like a wife forsaken and grieved in spirit, even like a wife of one’s youth when she is rejected, says your God.”

Exile isn’t just historical. Many of us, even in our own lives, know what it feels like to be far from home, to yearn for belonging, for restoration. The prophet’s message is multilayered: Israel will be restored after Babylon — but so will the hearts of those longing to return to God, wherever and whenever that longing stirs (cf. Psalm 137, Jeremiah 29:10).

If you read carefully, Isaiah is shockingly inclusive for its time. Not only is the promise for exiled Israel to return, but foreigners (נָכְרִי nokhri) and eunuchs (סָרִיס saris) — those long excluded from full participation — are specifically invited to share in God’s inheritance (Isaiah 56:3–8).

“Let not the foreigner who has joined himself to the Lord say, ‘The Lord will surely separate me from His people.’ Nor let the eunuch say, ‘Behold, I am a dry tree.’… I will give in My house and within My walls a memorial, And a name better than that of sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name which will not be cut off.”

This is radical — a promise that God’s family is bigger than lineage or genealogy. It is for “all who keep My covenant… even those I will bring to My holy mountain, And make them joyful in My house of prayer… for My house will be called a house of prayer for all the peoples” (Isaiah 56:6–7, NASB 1995).

Isaiah’s message flows directly from the famous “servant songs” (עבד ה׳ Evad Adonai) — culminating in Isaiah 52:13–53:12, the Suffering Servant’s sacrifice. Then we encounter the outpouring of Word and Spirit (רוּחַ ruakh) and the restoration in Isaiah 54–56.

In many early Jewish writings, the Messiah gains the nickname מְנַחֵם Menachem (Comforter) — echoing Lamentations 1:14 and Isaiah’s refrain: “Comfort, O comfort My people…” (Isaiah 40:1). Yeshua took up this mantle, reassuring His disciples during His last פֶּסַח Pesakh (Passover) that after He departed, “another Helper [παράκλητος Parakletos]” would come — the Spirit as the ongoing presence and comfort of God (John 14:16, 26; 16:7).

As Yeshua promised:

“Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you… Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.”

What does all this talk about water ultimately mean?

“Ho! Every one who thirsts, come to the waters; and you who have no money come, buy and eat. Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.”

The living water isn’t for sale; it’s a gift — a symbol of grace (חֶסֶד khesed) for everyone who hungers and thirsts spiritually (cf. Matthew 5:6; Psalm 42). Yeshua’s dialogue with the Samaritan woman in John 4 reflects this same longing:

“Whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst….”

One of my favorite images from Isaiah 54 is the “tent” of Adonai getting bigger:

“Enlarge the place of your tent; stretch out the curtains of your dwellings, spare not; lengthen your cords and strengthen your pegs.”

The family of God is expanding. No more “us vs. them” — those who are “near” and those who are “far off” (Eph. 2:13) — among believers. Just as the sukkah (booth) of Sukkot is a temporary, open dwelling that welcomes אֻשְׁפִּיזִין ushpatin (guests), so too our approach to spiritual community should welcome many. It’s not meant to be an exclusive club or just one ethnicity’s inheritance, but for all nations (גּוֹיִם goyim; ἔθνος ethnos).

Adonai commanded to those who Heaven saved from exile and living in darkness among the nations:

“Preserve justice and do righteousness, For My salvation is about to come and My righteousness to be revealed.”

It’s striking that the sequence is: first, God washes and welcomes us, and then calls us to live justly. It’s not “earn your place” — it’s “receive grace, then extend it to others.” The heart of Torah and prophets is not ritual for ritual’s sake, but justice, compassion (רַחֲמִים rachamim), and faithfulness (Micah 6:8; Matthew 23:23).

Yeshua echoes this theme: “I desire mercy, not sacrifice” (Matthew 9:13 NASB 1995, quoting Hosea 6:6).

The Bible is full of exile and return. Babylon for Israel. Far countries for the “prodigal son” (Luke 15). Sometimes alienation isn’t geographical, but spiritual — feeling far from God, community, or purpose. But the promise of Shemini Atzeret and Isaiah is that return, restoration, and acceptance are always possible:

“All your sons will be taught of the Lord; And the well-being of your sons will be great.”

Isaiah’s vision is not just of personal restoration but cosmic renewal:

“For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth; And the former things will not be remembered or come to mind.”

The flow of living water in Ezekiel’s temple vision (Ezekiel 47) and Revelation 22 mirrors this — a bubbling forth of life and healing for the nations.

“He showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal, coming from the throne of God and of the Lamb….”

The theme of water also recalls stories like Noah’s ark—a place of salvation through the flood. In Genesis 6–9, we see a chiasm, an ancient literary structure with a focal point, like the center of an “X.” It’s centering on “God remembered Noah” (Genesis 8:1), reminding us in our storms that God never forgets.

Baptism (טְבִילָה tevilah) in the Apostolic Writings is an outward sign of inward renewal — passing through waters to new life, just as Israel crossed the sea, and Noah rode out the judgment in the ark (1Peter 3:20–21).

Isaiah and the New Testament alike warn that life in exile is marked by spiritual struggles—a cosmic battle between the kingdom of God and the Adversary (הַשָּׂטָן haSatan). “Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1Peter 5:8 NASB 1995).

Yet, we are not without hope. God’s power is not bound by buildings, rituals, or our own righteousness. “Heaven always has a priest on duty” — Yeshua, our great high priest (כֹּהֵן גָּדוֹל kohen gadol), is our everlasting mediator (Hebrews 4:14–16).

So, what does it mean for us, as believers or seekers anywhere, to live out this story?

At the end of Sukkot, on Shemini Atzeret, we pray for rain — physical and spiritual. We remember God’s faithfulness from creation, through the exodus, exile, and return, to Messiah’s work and the hope of all things being made new.

Yeshua still calls:

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”

God’s tent is big enough, His water plentiful, His heart open. May each of us receive and share that blessing — today, and until all the world is filled with His glory.

Shalom u’bracha — peace and blessing on your journey!

7 takeaways from this study

The heart is at the center of both our physical and spiritual lives. In Hebrew thought, the heart—לֵב lev—is not just the seat of emotion, but also of thought, will and intention. When the Torah speaks of a “hardened heart,” it’s not just talking about feelings, but about the very core of who we are.

Why does this matter? Because the state of our hearts determines how we respond to God, to others, and to the challenges of life. The Exodus story, the prophets, and the teachings of Yeshua (Jesus) all return to this theme: Will we have hearts that are open and responsive, or hearts that are closed and resistant?

Let’s begin with חָזַק khazaq. This word appears throughout the Torah, sometimes as a command—“Be strong!”—and sometimes as a warning—“Pharaoh’s heart was hardened.” The root חזק kazaq means to be strong, to seize, to hold fast. In Exodus, it’s used to describe Pharaoh’s increasing resistance to God’s commands.

But khazaq is a double-edged sword. In Deuteronomy 31:6, Israel is told:

“Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the LORD your God is the one who goes with you.” (NASB 1995)

Here, strength is a virtue. But in Exodus 7:13:

“Yet Pharaoh’s heart was hardened (חָזַק kazaq), and he did not listen to them, as the LORD had said.”

Strength becomes stubbornness when it’s used to resist God. The same word that empowers us to stand firm in faith can, if misapplied, make us unyielding to the Spirit.

The Septuagint’s use of σκληραίνω skleraino for khazaq is telling. It’s the root of sclerosis—a medical term for hardening, as in arteries. Spiritually, it’s a warning: what begins as strength can become rigidity if we’re not careful.

Caved is another rich word. Its root means “heavy,” and it’s related to kavod (glory, honor). In Exodus 7:14:

“Then the LORD said to Moses, ‘Pharaoh’s heart is stubborn (כָּבֵד); he refuses to let the people go.’”

A “heavy” heart is one weighed down—by pride, by sin, by the burdens of life. In Isaiah 6:10, the prophet is told:

“Render the hearts of this people insensitive, their ears dull and their eyes dim…”

The word for “dull” is caved. It’s as if the people’s spiritual senses are weighed down, unable to respond.

But caved can also be positive. Kavod is the word for God’s glory—the weightiness of His presence. When we honor our parents (Exodus 20:12), we give them kavod, weight, significance. The challenge is to discern: Is my heart heavy with sin, or heavy with the glory of God?

The Greek βαρύνω baryno used in the Septuagint means “to weigh down.” In Luke 21:34, Yeshua warns:

“Be on guard, so that your hearts will not be weighted down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of life…”

Qashah means “to be hard, severe, unyielding.” In Exodus 7:3:

“But I will harden (קָשָׁה qashah) Pharaoh’s heart that I may multiply My signs and My wonders in the land of Egypt.”

Kasha is the word used for a stiff neck, a hard heart, a refusal to bow. In 2Kings 17:14:

“However, they did not listen, but stiffened (קָשָׁה qashah) their neck like their fathers, who did not believe in the LORD their God.”

The Greek σκληρός skleros is used here, again evoking the idea of something rigid and unbending.

One of the most profound mysteries in Scripture is the interplay between God’s sovereignty and human responsibility. In the Exodus story, sometimes Pharaoh hardens his own heart (Exodus 8:15), and sometimes God does it (Exodus 9:12). The rabbis and the apostles both wrestle with this tension.

Isaiah 63:17 asks:

“Why, O LORD, do You cause us to stray from Your ways and harden our heart from fearing You?”

Yet, the call to repentance is always present. Psalm 95:7–8 pleads:

“Today, if you would hear His voice, do not harden your hearts, as at Meribah…”

In the New Covenant, Hebrews 3:8 echoes this warning. The message is clear: God may allow us to go our own way, but He is always calling us back.

Rabbinic tradition often sees God’s hardening as a response to persistent human resistance. The Midrash Rabbah on Exodus 13:3 suggests that God’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart was to display His power, not to override Pharaoh’s will. Augustine, centuries later, saw it as evidence of divine sovereignty, while Nahum Sarna describes it as a progressive process—Pharaoh’s own stubbornness reinforced by God.

In Jewish thought, תשובה teshuvah—repentance, return—is central. The hardening of the heart is the antithesis of teshuvah. It’s a refusal to turn, to change, to listen.

But God’s invitation is always open. Ezekiel 36:26 promises:

“Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.” (NASB 1995)

This is the heart of the New Covenant (Jeremiah 31:31–34), fulfilled in Messiah Yeshua, who offers transformation from the inside out.

Moses’ protest—“I am of uncircumcised lips” (Exodus 6:12, 6:30)—is deeply human. He feels unworthy, unprepared, unable to speak for God. The Hebrew עֲרֵל arel means “closed off,” “unresponsive.” Isaiah echoes this in his vision:

“Woe is me, for I am ruined! Because I am a man of unclean lips…” (Isaiah 6:5 NASB 1995)

But God responds with grace. The seraph touches Isaiah’s lips with a coal from the altar:

“Behold, this has touched your lips; and your iniquity is taken away and your sin is forgiven.” (Isaiah 6:7 NASB 1995)

This is a picture of transformation—of lips and hearts made ready to speak and live God’s truth. Moshe promised the second generation of Israel post-Exodus:

“Moreover the LORD your God will circumcise your heart and the heart of your descendants, to love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul, so that you may live.”

The apostle Ya’akov (James) reminds us that trials are not just obstacles, but opportunities:

“Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” (James 1:2–4 NASB 1995)

In the martial arts analogy shared in our study, bones are strengthened by repeated impact. Spiritually, our faith is strengthened by facing resistance—not to make us hard and unyielding, but to make us resilient and mature.

Yeshua warns in Mark 8:17:

“Do you not yet see or understand? Do you have a hardened (πωρόω poroo) heart?” (NASB 1995)

It’s possible to become so accustomed to the things of God that we stop being moved by them. The challenge is to stay sensitive, to keep our hearts soft and responsive.

Paul, in Romans 11:7, speaks of Israel:

“What then? What Israel is seeking, it has not obtained, but those who were chosen obtained it, and the rest were hardened (πωρόω poroo).”

The warning is for all of us: don’t let familiarity breed indifference.

Psalm 38:4 laments:

“For my iniquities are gone over my head; as a heavy burden they weigh too much for me.” (NASB 1995)

But Yeshua offers hope:

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28 NASB 1995)

The answer to a heavy, stubborn heart is not more effort, but surrender—coming to Yeshua for rest, forgiveness, and transformation.

Paul’s analogy in Romans 9:20–21 is rooted in the Prophets:

“On the contrary, who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, ‘Why did you make me like this,’ will it? Or does not the potter have a right over the clay, to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for common use?” (NASB 1995)

We are called to be moldable, to let God shape us. The danger is in becoming so set in our ways that we can no longer be formed.

The Exodus was not just about Moses or Pharaoh. It was about a people. The elders, the mixed multitude, the entire community was on a journey. In Acts 7, Stephen recounts Israel’s history, reminding us that our choices affect others.

In Messianic Jewish life, community is central. We need each other—to encourage, to challenge, to keep our hearts soft. As Hebrews 10:24–25 urges:

“Let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another…”

We see in Yeshua the fulfillment of the promise of a new heart. He is the One who circumcises our hearts by the Spirit (Romans 2:29), who gives us rest for our souls, who calls us to love God with all our heart, soul, and strength (Deuteronomy 6:5; Mark 12:30).

Yeshua’s own heart was never hardened. He wept over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41), He was moved with compassion (Matthew 9:36), He forgave even those who crucified Him (Luke 23:34). He is our model and our source of transformation.

As we close, let’s remember: strength is not the same as stubbornness. True strength is found in surrender, in openness, in trust. The call is to be strong in faith, soft in compassion, open to God’s leading.

May we be a people with strong hearts—strong in faith, soft in compassion, open to God’s leading. May our lips speak truth and grace. And may we, like Moses, like Israel, like Yeshua Himself, walk in the freedom and fullness that comes from a heart transformed by God.

7 takeaways from this study

As we gather to reflect on Yom Kippur, I invite you to journey with me through some of the most profound questions and truths of our faith, as explained in detail in the book of Hebrews. This isn’t just a theological exercise — it’s a conversation about why we do what we do, what it means to be covered and cleansed, and how Yeshua (Jesus) as our High Priest changes everything.

Every year, as Yom Kippur—Yom HaKippurim (יוֹם הַכִּפּוּרִים, Day of Atonements)—comes around, I find myself asking: Why do we do this? It’s easy to get caught up in the rituals, the fasting, the prayers, but the prophets always call us back to the “why.” Isaiah 57 and 58, which we read today, are all about the heart behind the actions. The Lord isn’t looking for empty rituals; He’s looking for a people who are truly turning back to Him (Isaiah 58:6-7).

The Creator of heaven and earth desires to dwell with us. From the Garden of Eden to the New Jerusalem, the story of Scripture is about God’s longing to be “at one” with humanity (Genesis 3:8; Revelation 21:3). But something happened—sin created a gulf, a separation. Heaven wants to dwell with us, but we can’t dwell directly with God in our brokenness.

So what does heaven do? God begins to bridge the gap. He calls Avraham (Abraham) out of Mesopotamia, promising that through him all nations will be blessed (Genesis 12:1-3). The sanctuary, the Mishkan (מִשְׁכָּן, tabernacle), and later the Temple, become symbols of God’s desire to dwell among His people (Exodus 25:8).

But the problem remains: human priests, no matter how faithful, can’t fully bridge the gap. The Levitical priesthood, with all its sacrifices, was only ever a shadow—a copy—of something greater (Hebrews 8:5). The Torah (תּוֹרָה, instruction) points us toward the goal, but it can’t get us all the way there.

This is where the book of Hebrews comes in. Hebrews is a letter written to Jewish believers wrestling with the meaning of Yeshua’s priesthood and the ongoing significance of the Temple. The author’s message is clear: Yeshua is the ultimate High Priest, not in the line of Aharon (Aaron), but in the order of מַלְכִּי־צֶדֶק Melchizedek (king of righteousness) (Hebrews 5:6; 7:1-3).

For it was fitting for us to have such a high priest, holy, innocent, undefiled, separated from sinners and exalted above the heavens; who does not need daily, like those high priests, to offer up sacrifices, first for His own sins and then for the sins of the people, because this He did once for all when He offered up Himself.

Yeshua’s atonement is not just a covering (כִּפּוּר kippur), but a removal of sin. He bridges the gap once and for all, offering us confidence—not arrogance, but humble confidence—to approach God’s presence (Hebrews 10:19-22).

One of the most thought-provoking ideas we discussed is the meaning of τέλος telos (goal/target) in the Greek. Paul writes, “For Messiah is the end (telos) of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes” (Romans 10:4). But what if we understood “telos” not as “end” but as “target” or “goal”? The Torah isn’t abolished; it’s fulfilled—its aim is Messiah.

The Hebrew root of Torah, יָרָה yarah, means “to shoot” or “to aim.” Torah is like an arrow, and Messiah is the target. All the instructions, the sacrifices, the festivals—they point us toward Yeshua. When we focus on the target, we see the purpose behind the practice.

Hebrews 3 and 4 draw a powerful parallel between Israel’s journey to the Promised Land and our journey into God’s rest. The question isn’t just, “Is God with us?” but “Are we with God?” (Exodus 17:7; Hebrews 3:7-19). Trust (אֱמוּנָה emunah; πίστις pistis) is the key—do we trust that the One who brought us out of bondage will also bring us in?

There remains therefore a Sabbath rest for the people of God. For the one who has entered His rest has himself also rested from his works, as God did from His.

Rest isn’t just about ceasing from labor; it’s about trusting that Yeshua, our High Priest, has done what we could never do. We can approach the Holy of Holies with confidence, not because of our own merit, but because of His.

One of the longest quotations from the Tanakh in the New Testament is Jeremiah 31:31-34, the promise of a New Covenant (בְּרִית חֲדָשָׁה Brit Chadashah). Hebrews 8 and 10 remind us that the problem with the first covenant wasn’t the Torah itself, but the inability of the people and priests to fulfill it.

“For this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put My laws into their minds, and I will write them on their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be My people.”

The New Covenant is about transformation from the inside out. God’s instructions are no longer just external commands—they become part of who we are.

Atonement isn’t just about covering sin; it’s about letting go—of shame, guilt, and the things that hold us back. Hebrews 9 and 10 speak of a “cleansed conscience” (Hebrews 9:14). The Lord’s Prayer teaches us to forgive as we have been forgiven (Matthew 6:12).

Heaven’s math is radical: “Their sins and their lawless deeds I will remember no more” (Hebrews 10:17 NASB 1995). If heaven lets it go, can we? Can we release the grudges, the shame, and trust that God’s forgiveness is real?

The earthly tabernacle and Temple were always meant to be copies—shadows—of heavenly realities (Hebrews 8:5; 9:23-24). When the Temple was destroyed, heaven’s “open sign” remained on. Yeshua’s priesthood is eternal, not dependent on earthly structures.

But when Messiah appeared as a high priest of the good things to come, He entered through the greater and more perfect tabernacle, not made with hands, that is to say, not of this creation.

Our access to God isn’t limited by geography or buildings. The true dwelling place of God is with humanity (Revelation 21:3).

Faith (emunah/pistis) isn’t just intellectual assent—it’s trust that leads to action. Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness (Genesis 15:6; Romans 4:3). James reminds us that faith without works is dead (James 2:17).

Our journey is about being transformed, day by day, as we walk in trust and obedience. The Torah gives us direction, but it’s Yeshua who empowers us to reach the goal.

The goal (telos) of the Torah is to bring us close to God. The offerings (קָרְבָּנוֹת korbanot) are about drawing near (קָרַב karav). But the ultimate offering is Yeshua Himself, who brings us all the way in.

Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Yeshua, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, His flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith….

The story doesn’t end with the Temple. Ezekiel’s vision of a future Temple and John’s vision of the New Jerusalem both point to the ultimate reality: God’s dwelling place is with us. In the New Jerusalem, “there is no temple in it, for the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb are its temple” (Revelation 21:22 NASB 1995).

All the copies, the shadows, the rituals, they find their fulfillment — their “Yes!” — in the presence of God among His people.

As we reflect on Yom Kippur and the message of Hebrews, let’s remember: it’s not about perfection, but about direction. The Torah aims us toward Messiah, and Yeshua, as our High Priest, brings us all the way in. We are invited to move from fear to confidence, from shame to forgiveness, from ritual to relationship.

May we walk in the assurance that God’s presence is with us, His forgiveness is real, and His promises are sure. May we be transformed, day by day, as we trust in the One who bridges the gap.

May you know the fullness of atonement in Messiah Yeshua.

7 takeaways from this study

I am reminded that our journey — both as individuals and as part of the commonwealth of Israel — is one of returning, of coming home to the Creator of the heavens and the earth. This study, rooted in Exodus 4:21–23, Colossians 1–2, and 1John 1–2, invites us to reflect on what it means to be God’s “firstborn,” to experience true liberation, and to walk in the light of Messiah Yeshua (Jesus). Some have briefly fallen away from the path, some do not know where the path is, and some have deliberately left the path for another. Yet God calls all of humanity to leave the path of Satan and return to the path of Yeshua. As we walk through these passages together, let’s seek inspiration, challenge and encouragement for our own journeys.

Let’s begin in Exodus, where God speaks to Moshe (Moses) and calls Israel His “firstborn son” (בְּכוֹרִי bekhori). This is a powerful image — not just of privilege, but of purpose and responsibility.

“Then you shall say to Pharaoh, ‘Thus says the LORD, “Israel is My son, My firstborn. So I said to you, ‘Let My son go that he may serve Me’; but you have refused to let him go. Behold, I will kill your son, your firstborn.”’”

This passage sets the stage for the great drama of redemption. Israel’s physical bondage in Mitzraim (Egypt) is a picture of spiritual bondage — a theme that echoes throughout the תּוֹרָה Torah (generally, instruction or law; as a body of works, Genesis–Deuteronomy) and the נְבִיאִים Nevi’im (Prophets).

The book of Exodus gives us a picture of the stark difference between the Kingdom of Egypt and the Kingdom of God from the very beginning.

The people of Israel were a real people, truly in bondage and slavery, and in genuine need of liberation. This was not only an experience of physical liberation but also of spiritual liberation.

But notice: The call to “let My son go” is not just about freedom from something, but freedom for something — for service, for relationship, for worship. God’s deliverance is always purposeful.

As we read through Exodus, we see that the journey out of Egypt is not just a change of location, but a transformation of heart. Again and again, the people are tempted to look back, to romanticize their old chains.

How often do we do the same? We may leave behind old habits or beliefs, but the allure of “Egypt”—the comfort of the familiar, even if it’s bondage — can be strong.

The Torah reminds us that liberation is both physical and spiritual. פֶּסַח Pesach (Passover) is a memorial of both kinds of freedom. The blood of the lamb on the doorposts (Exodus 12) is a sign of God’s protection and mercy — a foreshadowing of Messiah’s sacrifice.

Throughout Scripture, we see a cosmic struggle between two kingdoms: the Kingdom of the LORD (מַלְכוּת יְהוָה Malkhut Adonai) and the kingdom of the Adversary (מַלְכוּת הַשָּׂטָן Malkhut haSatan).

The bondage of Satan can seem attractive for a time, and even after we are freed from it, we may look back with a false sense of nostalgia on the period of our lives when we did not have Yeshua. We forget how difficult our lives truly were and remember only the fleeting moments of pleasure.

Paul writes to the Colossians:

For He rescued us from the domain of darkness, and transferred us to the kingdom of His beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

Paul gives us a wonderful calling to live in the fear of the Lord and to be filled with His guidance.

Just as drones are programmed to return to their home base when they lose their signal, become disoriented, or are damaged, we too are called to return home.

This is not just ancient history. It’s our story. Every day, we are called to choose which kingdom we will serve. The Adversary (שָּׂטָן Satan) seeks to lure us back into bondage, but Messiah offers true freedom.

What is the role of Torah for believers in Yeshua? Some point to passages like Colossians 2:14 (“having canceled out the certificate of debt contained in ordinances that was against us, He took them out of the way, having nailed it to the cross”) as evidence that the Torah is obsolete.

But let’s look closer. Paul was not dismissing God’s instructions; rather, he’s speaking of the record of our transgressions — our sins, not the Torah itself. As he writes elsewhere:

So then, the Law is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good.

The Torah is our blueprint for living as God’s people. It teaches us how to love God (Deuteronomy 6:4–5, the Shema) and love our neighbor (Leviticus 19:18) — the very commandments Yeshua affirmed as the greatest and second-greatest, respectively (Matthew 22:37-40).

In Hebrew, the word for “law” is Torah, which means “instruction” or “teaching.” In Greek, the word often used is νόμος nomos. Both point to guidance, not just legalism.

Yokhanan’s first letter (1John) offers a beautiful picture of confession (תְּשׁוּבָה teshuvah: return or repentance) and forgiveness:

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

Confession is not about shame. It’s about honesty, healing and restoration. In the season of יוֹם כִּפּוּר Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), we are reminded that God’s desire is to remove our חַטָּאוֹת khattot (sins), our פְּשָׁעִים pesha’im (transgressions) and our עֲוֹנוֹת avonot (iniquities) — and to remember them no more (Jeremiah 31:31–34, the New Covenant prophecy).

One of the most beautiful aspects of the Exodus is the “mixed multitude” (עֵרֶב רַב erev rav) that left Egypt with Israel (Exodus 12:38). God’s invitation is not limited by ethnicity or background. As Isaiah prophesied:

“Let not the foreigner who has joined himself to the LORD say, ‘The LORD will surely separate me from His people.’”

In Messiah, all are welcome — Jew and Gentile, native and sojourner. The call to “come home” is for the whole world.

Pesakh is a festival rich with paradox. The same God who sends the destroyer also provides the means of protection — the blood of the lamb. As we read in Exodus 12, it is the LORD who both judges and saves.

This points us to Messiah, the ultimate Passover Lamb (1Corinthians 5:7), whose blood covers us and delivers us from the wrath to come.

The prophets speak of a “greater Exodus” — a future redemption so profound that the first Exodus will pale in comparison (Jeremiah 16:14-15). Revelation echoes these themes, describing plagues, deliverance, and the ultimate defeat of the adversary (Revelation 12:9-11).

And they overcame him because of the blood of the Lamb and because of the word of their testimony, and they did not love their life even when faced with death.

Our hope is not just in past deliverance, but in the promise of a new heaven and a new earth, where God will dwell with His people (Revelation 21:1–4).

Apostle Yokhanan challenges us to walk as Yeshua walked — not just in belief, but in action.

By this we know that we have come to know Him, if we keep His commandments. The one who says, ‘I have come to know Him,’ and does not keep His commandments, is a liar, and the truth is not in him.

Obedience is not about earning God’s love, but about living in the reality of His kingdom. The Hebrew word for “commandment” is מִצְוָה mitzvah, which comes from a root meaning “to connect.” Every mitzvah is an opportunity to draw closer to God and to one another.

Yeshua taught that all the Torah and the Prophets hang on two commandments: love God and love your neighbor (Matthew 22:37-40). This is not a new teaching, but a renewal of what God has always desired.

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself; I am the LORD.”

In Greek, the word for love is ἀγάπη agape, a self-giving, sacrificial love. In Hebrew, it’s אַהֲבָה ahavah, derived from a verb for give. This is the love that transforms communities and changes the world.

The Torah alone is not enough; we need the Spirit (רוּחַ, ruach) to guide and empower us. At Shavuot (Pentecost), we celebrate both the giving of the Torah at Sinai and the outpouring of the Spirit in Jerusalem (Acts 2).

Paul reminds us:

For the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.

The Spirit writes the Torah on our hearts (Jeremiah 31:33), enabling us to live out God’s instructions with joy and authenticity.

The New Covenant (בְּרִית חֲדָשָׁה brit chadashah) is not about abolishing the Torah, but about internalizing it. As Jeremiah prophesied:

“I will put My law within them and on their heart I will write it; and I will be their God, and they shall be My people.”

Through Messiah, we have an Advocate (παράκλητος parakletos—helper, advocate) with the Father (1John 2:1). His atonement covers our sins and restores our relationship with God.

1John warns against hypocrisy — claiming to walk in the light while living in darkness. True fellowship requires transparency, humility, and a willingness to confess and turn (teshuvah).

In 1 John 1:1–2:2, the Apostle John writes to combat early heresies and affirm believers’ fellowship with God through Yeshua. He emphasizes that we must be pure and obedient to Yeshua in order to dwell in His kingdom.

As we prepare for the Fall feasts, we need to confess and face our sins. Many Scriptures provide examples of repentance, including Psalm 51:7, Hebrews 9:14, and Leviticus 16:30. The first step in all of this is humility.

Just as Abraham submitted himself to Melchizedek by giving offerings and receiving blessings, so we are called to submit ourselves to Yeshua—bringing Him our offerings and receiving His blessings. For it is always the greater who blesses the lesser, the elder who blesses the younger.

The blood of Yeshua, the ultimate se’ir L’Adonai (the goat for the LORD on Yom Kippur), cleanses believers from khatot, pesha’im, and avonot (1 John 2:2), enabling fellowship with God and preparing us for Malkhut Adonai. Confession and teshuvah align with Yom Kippur’s atonement, keeping believers in God’s light.

1 John 2:2 reminds us that only one can forgive all our sins, from the least to the greatest. In humility, John points us to Yeshua.

Regular confession and reliance on Yeshua’s atonement purify believers, enabling them to abide in Malkhut Adonai. Our return to God is possible only because of what Yeshua has done for us.

On Yom Kippur, there are two goats: one for Adonai and the other for Azazel. Both are essential for the removal of sin and the restoration of fellowship. This is entirely Heaven’s work.

As we prepare for Yom Kippur, let’s ask: Are we wearing masks, or are we allowing God’s light to shine through us? Are our צִיצִתות tzitzitot (tassels) anchored to something real, or are they just decoration?

We need to live in a continual cycle of confession and repentance. This keeps us humble and prevents us from being overly harsh or judgmental toward others. By keeping our eyes on God rather than on ourselves, we purify our lives.

Keeping Yeshua’s commandments reflects the Torah’s call to love God and neighbor, fulfilled in Yeshua’s life and sacrifice.

This obedience ensures believers remain in Malkhut Adonai, free from the darkness of malkhut haSatan (1 John 2:8–11). Obedience is not how we enter God’s kingdom, but it is how we remain in it. God is a God of order, not of chaos; disobedience brings chaos.

God’s commandments are simple. It is people who make them complicated for the sake of their own egos and power. This is why Yeshua often clashed with both the Pharisees and the Sadducees.

Our journey is not just from slavery to freedom, but from slavery to sonship. In Messiah, we are adopted as children of God (Romans 8:15-17), heirs of the promises given to Abraham.

For you are all sons of God through faith in Messiah Yeshua.

This identity calls us to live differently — to reflect God’s character, to pursue justice and mercy, and to invite others into the journey.

As we close, I invite you to reflect on your own journey. Where are you in the process of coming home? What chains are you ready to leave behind? How is God calling you to deeper trust, confession, and transformation?

The story of Exodus, the teachings of Paul, the letters of Yokhanan all point us to the same truth: God is faithful. His love is steadfast. And the invitation to return — to come home — is always open.

May we walk in the light, love with sincerity, and live as citizens of the Kingdom of God, anchored in His Word and empowered by His Spirit.