Parashat Ki Tissa either supports or challenges Ha’am’s words. This week’s parashah relates one of the lowest moments in Israel’s story—the sin of the golden calf—in which Israel dances before a god of their own making. Coming down Mount Sinai with the stone tablets inscribed by God’s finger (Exod. 31:18), Moses sees Israel’s frenzy and smashes the tablets. Moses spends the rest of the parashah picking up the pieces and working to restore Israel’s relationship with God. The parashah ends with God giving a new set of tablets to Moses. The holy covenant between God and Israel is restored.

The great sin (חטאה גדלה, Exod. 32:21) of the golden calf is packaged tightly within the magisterial details related to the building of the Mishkan, Israel’s portable temple. In Exodus 25–31, God outlines the plans for the Mishkan, replete with precious metals and incense recipes. Exodus 35–40 chronicles the building of the Mishkan. Notably, at the core of this sumptuous description are laws related to the observance of Shabbat, Exodus 31:12–17 and 35:2–3. In this literary way, holy time appears to lie at the center of holy space. The Rabbis suggest that the Torah’s structure prohibits labor on Shabbat by revealing that even God’s house cannot be built on Shabbat (Mekhilta Derabi Yishma’el 35:1).

The sin of the golden calf and its aftermath rests between the laws of rest. Why? Why is this shameful story framed by the laws of Shabbat? Its placement could challenge Ahad Ha’am’s message by showing that Shabbat, in fact, cannot keep the Jews. In this reading, Israel’s shocking apostasy is a disruption that shatters sacred time and proves it to be too abstract a concept for young Israel to embrace. Israel needs hard shiny objects like the golden calf to worship.

I suggest that the framework of Shabbat encompassing the great sin supports Ha’am’s words. I don’t see the sin as a disruption of sacred time. Rather, I see sacred time, Shabbat observance, as a means to contain the sin. The Torah frames Israel’s sin in this way to convey how Shabbat can protect us from our basest selves and comfort us when we are our basest selves. Even when we behave terribly, as Israel did with the golden calf, Shabbat reminds us of God’s holiness and our holiness. It is a sign of who we can be, as the Torah says: “It is a sign between Me and you for all generations that you know that I, God sanctified you” (Exod. 31:13).

Of course, Shabbat does more than prevent us from being base. It also elevates us, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel beautifully wrote: “It is one of life’s highest rewards, a source of strength and inspiration to endure tribulation, to live nobly . . . The Sabbath is the inspirer, the other days the inspired” (A.J. Heschel, The Sabbath, 22).

I offer this reading because it reflects my experience of Shabbat. I did not grow up observing Shabbat. It was a struggle when my husband and I decided not to cook or travel on Shabbat, and it still is. Let me say loudly and clearly, Shabbat is not entirely restful. Beating the Shabbat clock, hosting family and friends, is work. But it’s work with great personal rewards:

Shabbat sensitizes me to the rhythms of the natural world. I live in New York City where I cannot see the night sky, and yet I know precisely when the sun sets and feel the seasons change as Shabbat grows shorter and longer.

Shabbat connects my family and friends. I host a party once a week, complete with bread, wine, and chocolate. Family and friends enjoy hours of meaningful and frivolous conversations, laughter, and some song and heated debate. My children have grown closer through Shabbat. They talk to each other, enjoy one another and, amazingly, have learned to talk to people of all kinds and opinions. Oh, and did I mention the chocolate?

Shabbat provides me with precious time for self-reflection and self-indulgence. I go for walks and, now that my kids are older, even take naps. Shabbat is also the only day that I spend hours reading for pleasure.

Shabbat sustains my spiritual life. As Rabbi Heschel writes: “The Sabbath is the presence of God in the world, open to the soul of man” (The Sabbath, 60). On Shabbat, I think about and pray to God, and am more aware of God’s presence in the world, in my life, and in myself.

As the world around us digitalizes and anxieties and rage increase, I am more and more grateful for what Shabbat gives me. I need Shabbat. I think the Jews need Shabbat. In fact, the world may need Shabbat.

Dying from cancer, neurologist and author Oliver Sacks remembered observing Shabbat as a child and wrote in the New York Times: “The peace of the Sabbath, of a stopped world, a time outside time, was palpable, infused everything, and I found myself drenched with a wistfulness . . . I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest” (“Sabbath,” Aug. 14, 2015).

As it did for Israel in the Torah, even at its darkest moment, Shabbat frames my life. Shabbat provides me with fellowship, family memories, and intimacy. It centers me, rests me in good conscience, and restores me. It opens me to the holy and reminds me of my holiness. It inspires me to live a noble life. I am grateful that I keep Shabbat because I know the ways that Shabbat keeps me.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Ki Tissa

We can also identify a further connection between the accounts of revelation and the golden calf in both stories’ references to Egypt and the Exodus. The covenant itself rests upon the foundation of what God did to the Egyptians, for the Israelites:

“You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine.” (Exod. 19:4–5)

God refers not only to having saved the Israelites, which perhaps is reason enough for them to serve God, but also to what God “did to the Egyptians.” Although God does not spell out what that means, the Israelites of course understand; they saw with their own eyes how God pummeled the Egyptians with plagues and drowned them during the Exodus. Thus, the reference to what they saw God do to the Egyptians may imply a warning: Look what God can do to you if you do not accept God’s terms.

If we view the covenant through this lens, we might question the extent to which the Israelites could have refused God’s proposal. And in fact, drawing on language from Exodus 19, the rabbis similarly suggest that the covenant at Sinai was coerced through a divine threat of violence:

“They took their places ‘at the foot of’ the mountain” [Exod 19:17]. Rabbi Avdimi bar Hama bar Hasa said: This teaches that the Holy One Blessed be He overturned the mountain above them like a tank, and said to them, “If you accept the Torah, good, but if not—here shall be your grave.” (BT Shabbat 88a)

Returning to the story of the golden calf, we find repeated references to Egypt. While in one instance, Moses appeals to God not to destroy the Israelites by imagining what the Egyptians might say, the remainder of these cases refer either to Moses, God, or the golden calf as the one who delivered the Israelites from Egypt. Arguably, the text would read just as coherently without most of these references to Egypt, so why include them? In my view, the repeated mentions of Egypt build on their function at the beginning of the revelation account: they remind the Israelites of the violence of which God is capable. But if at the beginning of revelation, God only implies a threat of violence should the Israelites not accept God’s terms, in the story of the golden calf that threat becomes explicit, as God prepares to destroy the Israelites wholesale. Of course, the story continues; Moses successfully intervenes on Israel’s behalf, and God allows for a new set of tablets and a repaired covenant.

The links between the accounts of revelation at Sinai and the golden calf suggest that we read these episodes as part of a single, protracted story of the foundation of Israel and God’s covenantal relationship. This relationship experiences bumps from the very beginning but survives devastating mistakes and existential threats. This is a relationship with staying power.

This year, Shabbat Parashat Ki Tissa arrives on the heels of Purim. As in the story of the golden calf, the story of Purim involves a threat of annihilation, if under different circumstances. In the Talmudic passage cited above, Rava responds as follows to the suggestion that God effectively coerced the Israelites into accepting the covenant:

“Even so, they again accepted it (i.e., the Torah) in the time of Ahasuerus, as it is written: קִיְּמוּ וְקִבְּלוּ הַיְּהוּדִים ‘The Jews undertook and accepted’ (Esther 9:27)–The Jews undertook that which they had already accepted.” (BT Shabbat 88a)

Although at Sinai the Israelites experienced duress, during the Purim story the Jewish people were thoroughly uncoerced and embraced the Torah willingly. Rava connects the dots between two seemingly distant and disparate stories.

In the face of crisis, it can feel like there are no options and no future. Certainly, in different ways, the stories of the golden calf and of Purim point to such moments, and the Jewish story has included many more moments that have felt inescapably grim. But the story of the Israelites continues past the episode of the golden calf, and the story of Esther creates a legacy that we continue to participate in today. Let us remember that though, to quote Rabbi Tarfon, “the day is short” (Avot 2:15), our story is long.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Ki Tissa

All the Class of 2024 Senior Sermons

The episode opens:

וַיַּרְא הָעָם כִּי־בֹשֵׁשׁ מֹשֶׁה לָרֶדֶת מִן־הָהָר וַיִּקָּהֵל הָעָם עַל־אַהֲרֹן וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֵלָיו קוּם  עֲשֵׂה־לָנוּ אֱלֹהִים אֲשֶׁר יֵלְכוּ לְפָנֵינוּ כִּי־זֶה  מֹשֶׁה הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר הֶעֱלָנוּ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם לֹא יָדַעְנוּ מֶה־הָיָה לוֹ׃

When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him, “Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that fellow Moses—the man who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.”

(Exod. 32:1)

The verse suggests a deep sense of loss as Moses remains on Mount Sinai with God. In light of their anxiety about Moses’ whereabouts, Aaron requisitions gold jewelry from the Israelites. The people give willingly, even eagerly, and the gold is molded into the golden calf. This narrative makes clear the Israelites’ desire, or Aaron’s assumption of their desire, to gain access to the divine on a material level. Up until this point they have been recipients of God’s great acts and now in their moment of despair they lack the tools to engage appropriately—tools Moses is busy receiving atop the mountain.

Prior to this episode, the Israelites repeatedly experience God’s immanence. God appears to Moses in the burning bush, brings the plagues upon the Egyptians, parts the Red Sea, closes it once again over the Israelites’ enemies, delivers manna and finally, creates the supernatural storm atop Mount Sinai while delivering the commandments. God repeatedly appears in great redemptive acts. Yet in all these significant moments of God’s presence, the Israelites only bear witness and benefit from God’s acts, lacking instructions for how to respond. Fear of God’s absence, along with the desire to be active partners in relationship, leads the Israelites to create the Golden Calf.

This seeming lapse in faith might be forgivable prior to the giving of the Torah. Yet Moses receives the laws about societal norms in addition to those outlining the construction of the Tabernacle immediately before the Golden Calf.

To make sense of this glaring violation, Rashi employs the Talmudic principle:

אֵין מוּקְדָּם וּמְאוּחָר בַּתּוֹרָה

there is no “earlier” or “later” in the Torah; it is not recorded in chronological order. Rashi claims the building of the Golden Calf took place before the Israelites were given instructions to build the Mishkan. He understands the timeline based on the Hebrew dates associated with the events of the Torah, aligning the golden calf with the 17th of Tammuz; God and the Israelites’ reconciliation with the Day of Atonement, Yom Hakippurim; and the gifting of the first contributions to the Mishkan on the day after, the 11th of Tishrei. This timeline suggests that the sin of the Golden Calf took place long before the Israelites got instructions for building the Mishkan.

Ramban, however, feels strongly that the Torah was recorded in chronological order—he sees the text as intentional and its order significant. He writes:

ועל דעתי: כל התורה כסדר, שכל המקומות אשר בהם יאחר המוקדם יפרש בו

Ramban understands the whole Torah to be in order, excluding only specific cases in which the Torah explicitly states when, sequentially, an event took place (Commentary on Leviticus 16:1).

I want to understand the Bible as Ramban does, recorded in chronological order, yet I have the same urge as Rashi to blame the Golden Calf on the Israelites’ ignorance of the Tabernacle instructions. We could argue that God gives instructions for the building of the Mishkan and creation of a sacrificial system in Moses’ second trip up the mountain, and before he can deliver these laws to the people, they take matters into their own hands. God thus understands the human desire to actively participate in their relationship with God, addressing that very need in requesting the creation of the Mishkan. But the people take matters into their own hands before they hear God’s request, fulfilling their innate need to partner with God.

Despite the seriousness with which God regards the Israelites’ betrayal, the following beautiful midrash connects the gifted gold for the Mishkan to the gifted gold for the Golden Calf. I find it summons the sympathy I think the Israelites deserve:

יִשְׂרָאֵל נָתְנוּ זָהָב לָעֵגֶל עַד שֶׁאָמַר לָהֶם דַּי, וְנָדְבוּ זָהָב לַמִּשְׁכָּן עַד שֶׁאָמַר לָהֶם דַּי, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (שמות לו, ז): וְהַמְּלָאכָה הָיְתָה דַּיָּם לְכָל הַמְּלָאכָה לַעֲשׂוֹת אֹתָהּ וְהוֹתֵר. אָמַר הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא יָבוֹא זְהַב הַמִּשְׁכָּן וִיכַפֵּר עַל זְהַב הָעֵגֶל

Comparing two moments when the Israelites donated gold to a communal project, the midrash (Shemot Rabbah 51:8) suggests that on both occasions the Israelites were moved to keep giving to the point that they had to be told “enough,” that their donations would more than suffice. This midrash sees in the Israelites a profound need to give. In this sense, the Golden Calf was fulfilling a need that God anticipated and was prepared to help them satisfy. Had the Israelites summoned a bit more patience, the upcoming construction of the Mishkan could have fulfilled their desire to give tangibly to connect with God.

God established Divine immanence among the Israelites and then proceeded to change course. If we see the Israelites as ignorant of the upcoming construction of the Mishkan, as an infantile faith community just beginning to have a more reciprocal relationship with God, we might muster up empathy for a people desperate for greater guidance on how to restore God’s Divine Presence within the community.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

When Moses finished speaking the words of God to the children of Israel, he placed a veil on his face (34:33). However, whenever Moses came into the presence of God, Moses would remove the veil (34:33) and immediately thereafter relay the commandments of God to the children of Israel, who would once again briefly behold Moses’s radiating face. Moses would then put the veil back on his face until the next time “he went in to speak with Him” (34:35).                                              

Moses’s actions are puzzling and confront us with two related questions: On the one hand, why did Moses need to place the veil on his face? And on the other, why did Moses remove the veil when going before God and when relaying God’s words to the people—only to replace it as described above? Biblical commentators offer some fascinating insights.

Interior World of the Leader

Keli Yekar (Shelomoh Efraim Luntschitz, Poland, Prague, 1550–1619) takes an approach focusing on Moses’s interior world—h���� psychological state. According to his interpretation, Moses placed the veil on his face because everyone was gazing at him. As we read in Numbers 12:3, “And the man Moses was very humble, more than any person on the face of the earth.” He was, consequently, embarrassed and uncomfortable when people were staring at his radiant face. By covering his face, he would be able to prevent them from seeing the shining countenance he merited by having been in God’s presence when receiving the Torah. Moses was more comfortable when he was not subject to the constant attention of others.

Why then did Moses remove the veil whenever he came before God? According to Keli Yekar, Moses had to literally and figuratively remove the veil of modesty when coming before God to receive words of Torah and instruction, for “he who is bashful cannot learn” (Mishnah Avot 2:6).

Humility vs Assertiveness

Interestingly, Keli Yekar presents us with a kind of values clarification exercise by juxtaposing two competing values: the highly regarded character trait of modesty on the one hand and the paramount value of unencumbered and even assertive Torah study on the other. He implicitly challenges us to consider situations in our lives where modesty may not be appropriate and where we must valiantly struggle against our natural inclinations. And he, of course, takes a strong stance in one situation: when studying Torah we will not be able to make sufficient progress in our studies if we are not willing to be assertive and challenging at times, even at the risk of seeming less than reverential. What makes this lesson so powerful and perhaps radical at first glance is that in this situation the teacher is God! So what Keli Yekar is implying is the following: since reticence is not in place when learning with God, all the more so when learning from teachers or engaging with leaders of flesh and blood.

This attitude may encourage independent thinking and a willingness to challenge fundamentalist or autocratic leaders and teachers. It could also protect a person and society from compliantly accepting dictatorial ideas or mandates which could lead to the sanctioning of unethical, illegal, and even violent behavior.

R. Akiva Eiger, Hungary, (1761–1837), like Keli Yekar, invokes the verse extolling Moses as “very humble, more than any person on the face of the earth” (Num. 12:3). Moses, he notes, comported himself submissively with utter humility and abasement. However, since Moses was the king and leader of Israel, it was his duty to conduct himself in a regal manner in order to preserve order and guard his honor. Moses, therefore, had to conceal his natural humble and submissive nature with the veil of royal demeanor. On the other hand, when Moses came to speak with God, he removed his veil of regal behavior and once again assumed his natural humble and modest demeanor. 

Public vs. Private Persona

Eiger’s comment highlights the issue of leadership, insisting that a leader must behave in a manner that instills awe of and respect for their position for the sake of the orderly conduct of government and for the leader’s own honor. Similarly, a teacher, parent, or employer must foster an environment that reduces the possibility of chaotic or anarchic behavior. If one is naturally reticent, or even permissive, one must battle against this natural inclination in order to maintain the order that is requisite for the conduct of government, a school, a home, a workplace.

Interestingly, Keli Yekar and Eiger are both dealing with competing values, and they both highlight the importance of struggling against our inclinations at times—in this case extreme humility—yet paradoxically they seem to reverse the situation. Keli Yekar suggests that Moses needed to overcome his humble nature when standing before God, while Eiger states that Moses needed to overcome his humble nature before the people.  

How does Eiger differ from Keli Yekar in his understanding of Moses’s relationship with God and by implication our own relationship with God as well? According to Eiger, Moses removes the metaphorical veil of assertive, regal leadership when speaking with God for there is no need of pretense or public image before God; God knows all—including our true nature. And furthermore, it is not appropriate to conduct ourselves assertively or regally before God. Submission before God is in order!

Yet, there may be an additional implied lesson in Eiger’s comment—one that is indeed comforting—there exists a place where we have an opportunity to feel secure, without wearing our veils: before God.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

In the Mei Hashiloah, the Izbitzer (R. Mordechai Yoseif Leiner, 1801–1854) that the story of the Golden Calf appears just after God had taught Moses about the Sabbath. The Israelites, he says, knew that Moses had just learnt these laws, and thus anticipated the complete redemption, “the day that will entirely be the Sabbath” (), at which time God’s plans and needs will be known with certainty. Reflecting on the lack of clarity in their own current situation, the Israelites turned to Aaron and created the Golden Calf, “for truly, the creation of the Golden Calf was because they wanted God to show them his order and his ways for all time” (). The Israelites needed certainty, and they needed it now. And so, they turned to Aaron and received the Golden Calf, a leader that will not budge, one that will not disappear into the clouds nor criticize their ways—a reliable thing that will give them what they want, when they want it.

We all know what happens next. God lets Moses know what’s up. Moses gallantly defends the Israelites, but when he comes down the mountain, the sight is so difficult that he breaks the tablets. The Golden Calf is destroyed, and many Israelites are killed in punishment.

While Moses is distraught, somehow, he gets himself through the ordeal. He even gets the Israelites (or at least, some of them) through it as well, as he convinces God not to destroy the nation. The tablets are remade, this time by Moses’s hands.

But when those first tablets were broken, something in Moses broke too. And to get through his despair, he now needs to know that God will remain with the Israelites. He needs God to be seen—ostensibly so that it be known that God’s people have gained favor (Exod. ), but ultimately because Moses himself wants to behold God’s presence (Exod. ). Moses asks to see God—he asks for something tangible that can prove God’s presence, so that he can be certain of God’s favor towards him and the Israelites. In the end, God acquiesces, but with a catch: God agrees only to show him their back, as God’s face “must not be seen” (Exod. ).

Seeing the back of God teaches Moses that God indeed loves and cares for the People of Israel. According to the Talmud (), God showed him the knot (kesher) of their head tefillin (tefillin shel rosh), a sign that, , “we”—the People of Israel—“are connected (mekusharin) to God.” But in the context of Moses’s progress in the parshah, it is clear that this is something that he needs for himself. The difficult, tragic, and even violent events surrounding the receiving of the Torah have tested his own faith in the People of Israel and in their unique relationship with God.

And there is more: not only is there a catch—God reveals himself, but only in a minimal, if symbolically laden, fashion—but there is also a price. For when Moses now comes back to the people, they cannot look at him, as “the skin of his face was radiant” (Exod. ). Moses received the clarity he was looking for; God gave him the sign, if indirectly. But the sign left its mark, and now Moses—who has never been a man of words—must speak through a veil.

We all need that certainty. We find comfort in knowing that our beliefs are correct, either because we share them with a crowd or because we have found some other sign that makes us feel vindicated. As we see in this week’s parshah, a major part of the Israelites’ growth is coming to terms with uncertainty, learning that quick confirmation can be nothing more than an idol. And so too does Moses grow in a similar fashion—h���� need for affirmation in the face of doubt consumes him, and he is transfigured by the sign that God gives him, left not unrecognizable but at a permanent disconnect from others. We all desire that certainty, but so too must we all acknowledge the toll that conviction can take.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

In my experiences as an advocate, when facing the sense of safety and the logic of fear, responding with Jewish values—But every human being is created betzelem elohim, in the image of God!—could come across as weak or naïve. Logic and statistics didn’t fare so well, either. What did work was shifting the statement of values: giving voice to shared values, combined with the self-interest that was a key component of the fear. Appealing to the Golden Rule alone didn’t work, but saying We don’t commit human rights abuses as a nation because we want to protect our own troops from similar harms did. It’s hard as a leader to take this approach, because it is more nuanced and requires listening. It’s much easier to lead people using fear—or, at the very least, to not challenge or sit with their heightened emotions.

This week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, tells the story of a failure of leadership and the challenge of rebuilding trust, nestled within the broader narrative of the creation of sacred space, shared ritual, and God’s revelation. As our parashah unfolds, Moses has been up on Mount Sinai, receiving God’s revelation, for a very long time. As readers, we can see that the Israelites are about to receive tremendous gifts from God, including the instructions for the Tabernacle and the tablets on which the 10 Commandments are inscribed.

But Moses’s absence has left a void for the Israelites in their relationship with God. They fall back on what they know, asking for a physical manifestation of their deity to reassure them of God’s presence in their midst (Exod. 32:1). Faced with this panic, Aaron fails as a leader. Rather than resisting—or even responding with a counter-narrative rooted in the values that were animating their fear—he reflexively responds with actions. He gives the people what they want (Exod. 32:2–5). Thus with their sense of safety and normalcy assured, the Israelites can resume their patterns of life, feasting and giving thanks to their illusion of God.

When God reports to Moses what has happened in his absence, you can see a frustration with the Israelites, not on account of their lack of faith, but because of their stubbornness (God calls them “stiffnecked”) and their lack of empathy and imagination. The experience of the Exodus has not freed them from their need for safety and security, nor from their old ways of thinking. Moses talks God down, but God’s frustration is understandable.

But Moses, too, is only able to lead from fear, to respond to the Israelites with vengeance. True, Moses does successfully talk God down, with an eye to public messaging (Exod. 32:11–14), preventing God from wiping out the people and starting over. But it doesn’t last. Upset with and angered by the reality of what he sees when he journeys down Mt. Sinai, Moses responds with not just anger but cruelty. Moses can’t help but be righteous for God’s sake (Exod. 32:20, 25–29), no matter the cost. But righteousness can be destructive. It is a commonplace understanding in social justice circles that abuses hurt not just the victim but also the perpetrator, and in acting from fear, Moses perpetuates the crisis, culminating in a plague sent by God (Exod. 32:35).

So how can we move forward from this kind of crisis, from the retreat into anger and fear? As an activist, I’ve tried to learn how to craft messages and build bridges to take people beyond the places where they feel that they are stuck. Only once people are unstuck can they envision new worlds or be open to new ideas. In the fight against torture, that meant taking the values conversation from the abstract to the concrete. If people act from fear to protect themselves or the people that they care about, they can also change if they believe it will enable themselves and their loved ones to thrive.

As the reality of the sin of the Golden Calf sinks in, God returns to the theme of covenant (Exod. 33:1–3), a shared commitment that is based in the relationships of the past and the potential of the future. God contextualizes the reality of what the Israelites have done within the larger scope of the history of their relationship. And it is then that they begin to repent (Exod. 33:4), when they are able for a moment to see beyond their present selves and envision a new world. Despite all the suffering and death that has occurred, only a reaffirming of values rooted in relationship can trigger self-reflection.

And that is the essence of how Moses, God, and the Israelites move forward from the incident of the Golden Calf. It is true that something profound in the relationship between God and the Israelites is forever shattered. Moses becomes even more of an intermediary for the divine message, as the Israelites can only look on whenever God’s presence descends into their midst (Exod. 33:7–11). But the renewed covenant that follows, including a new set of tablets to replace what was shattered (Exod. 34:10–27), isn’t just a retelling of God’s promise to Abraham. In order to truly heal and move forward, there has to be a shared acknowledgement of what happened and how to prevent it from happening again.

The new covenant is rooted in action, both to avoid idolatry and to live out the blessings of being God’s people through the pilgrimage holidays. The Israelites and God are able to affirm their connection not just in the abstract and in history, but through the possibility of shared future experience rooted in deeds. We, too, can overcome that which divides us by uncovering our shared values, and by actualizing these values we can, eventually, overturn systems of injustice in our world.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).