Yom Kippur is the most sacred holiday of the Jewish year. It is also unique among the holidays. All of the other feasts and fasts either commemorate a decisive event in Jewish history or mark turning points in the rhythm of the agricultural year.

But Yom Kippur is different. It commemorates no historical event. It has no agricultural associations. It points to nothing beyond itself. The meaning and importance of the day derives not from what it remembers or appreciates, but from what happens on this day.

What is the event of Yom Kippur? “For on this day atonement shall be made for you, to cleanse you; from all your sins you shall be clean before Hashem” (Lev 16:30). On Yom Kippur God forgives, purifies, renews. The holiday does not merely thank God for doing this generally and at all times. God does it on Yom Kippur!

On May 16, 2010 (3 Sivan 5770), my father—may his memory be a blessing—passed from this world to the next. I was with him in the final moments, and during most of the preceding three days and nights. Since that intense weekend I have been able to think seriously only about two things: the good life that my father lived and the reality of death that brought his earthly life to a close.

I have never encountered death at such close quarters. I was also with my mother when she passed away, but she made the transition quickly and with a minimum of fuss. She was always the impatient one. My father, in contrast, took his time with everything that he did. Like my mother, his way of dying reflected his way of living.

The rabbinic term “Shekhinah” refers to the divine presence that dwells in the Beit Mikdash (Temple) and accompanies the people of Israel on its historical journey. It corresponds to the biblical Kavod—the divine glory that fills the sanctuary. The Kavod/ Shekhinah is the localized and manifest presence of the infinite one, whose greatness cannot be contained by heaven itself.

Jewish philosophers in the early medieval period were troubled by the biblical and rabbinic notion that the infinite God could, in a sense, become finite. Therefore, they concluded that the finite Shekhinah was a created entity, fashioned by God as an instrument of divine revelation. For them, the Shekhinah revealed God, but was not itself God.

Jewish mystics in the medieval period agreed with the philosophers that the Shekhinah had an identity distinct from the infinite one, whom they called Eyn Sof (“without end”). Like the philosophers, they went beyond the rabbinic texts, which had acknowledged the paradox of divine infinity and finitude without drawing out its implications. Unlike the philosophers, however, the mystics proposed that the Shekhinah was fully divine. She was both distinct from, and one with, Eyn Sof. She revealed God because she was God—in a localized, manifest, finite form.

Scholars often note that Jewish tradition views the Torah much the way the Christian tradition views Christ.  When we take account of the Jewish mystical tradition, the parallel becomes even more striking.

For classic Rabbinic thought, the Torah is more than the first five books of the Bible.  It is the heavenly wisdom of God, which existed before the creation of the world and which God employed as a blueprint and instrument when fashioning all things.

Yet, according to classic Rabbinic thought, the Torah itself remains part of that created order.  It is the highest of all created realities, but it has a temporal beginning and is not divine.

One might say that the classic Rabbinic view of the Torah is analogous to the Arian view of Christ.  For the Arians, Yeshua was the incarnate Logos, who existed before the world was made; but the Logos was himself created by God, the firstborn and highest of the angels.  The Logos is neither eternal nor divine.

“The God of Israel has a proper name. There is no fact in Jewish theology more significant than this.”

With these words, Michael Wyschogrod cuts to the heart of the Jewish theological tradition.  Ultimately, all Jewish theology is meditation and reflection on the mystery of the Divine Name.

That Name is the Tetragrammeton—the sacred four Hebrew letters that were pronounced only in the Jerusalem temple, only on the Day of Atonement, and only by the High Priest.  When the biblical text is read in synagogue, that Name is pronounced Adonai —“my Lord.”  When it is employed in daily conversation, one simply says Hashem—“the Name.”

This practice conveys two messages.  On the one hand, God remains an eternal mystery, hidden behind a heavenly veil.  On the other hand, the infinite One has a proper name, and thus a personal identity.  God is an “I” and a “You” rather than an “it.” By revealing those four letters to Israel, God grants access to the divine “I,” who may now be addressed as “You.”

Like most secularized Jewish teenagers, I only went to synagogue on the High Holidays and for my Bar Mitzvah. Then, at the age of nineteen, inspired by my new faith in Yeshua, I joined my father and participated in Shabbat services.

To my surprise, I found that the words of the Jewish prayer book expressed what I wanted to say better than any extemporaneous prayers I had been able to formulate. When I had lacked faith, the service had been for me an empty shell. Entering in with faith, the same liturgy seemed like a palace for a glorious king.

At the same time, something about the service disturbed me. I heard in the words spoken by the rabbi much about the people of Israel, but little about the God of Israel. I began to feel as though the emphasis given to the people of God dishonored the God of the people.

I still think that the name of God is found too infrequently on the lips of Jewish spiritual leaders. If Messianic Jews stand for anything, it should be for a renewed sense among Jews of the reality and power of God.

In last month’s column I spoke about the importance of the people of Israel. In response to such ideas, Christians sometimes say, “But that is not the Good News of Yeshua!”

Then what is the Good News of Yeshua?

In 1 Corinthians 15, Paul summarizes the Good News for us: Now I would remind you, brothers and sisters, in what terms I proclaimed to you the Good News…that Messiah died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve (1 Cor 15:1, 3–5).

Most popular treatments of the Good News focus on the first act that is “in accordance with the scriptures”—the death of the Messiah “for our sins.” However, Paul’s emphasis in 1 Corinthians 15 is on the last act that is “in accordance with the scriptures”— the resurrection of the Messiah on the third day. The rest of the chapter elaborates on the implications and importance of Yeshua’s resurrection, not on his death.

When the Apostolic Writings speak of “God,” they generally mean the Father of Messiah Yeshua—not Yeshua himself, nor an essence that Yeshua shared with the Father and the Spirit. Christian tradition diverged from this usage in order to guard its confession of the deity of Yeshua and the Oneness of God. While this linguistic development may have been necessary, it was also problematic.

Israel was chosen to be a priestly nation, the representative and vanguard of all creation in the worship of God. As its High Priest, Yeshua empowers Israel to fulfill its vocation of worship, and enables those from the nations to share in that vocation.

The letter to the Ephesians captures succinctly this work of the Messiah: “So he [Yeshua] came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off [i.e., Gentiles] and peace to those who were near [i.e., the Jewish people]; for through him both of us [Jews and Gentiles] have access in one Spirit to the Father” (Ephesians 2:17-18). The goal is universal worship of the Father, through the Son, in the Spirit.

I recently returned from a three-week stay in Jerusalem.  MJTI held its first Master’s level course at our new center in the city, and I helped to lead the course.

Our topic was Jerusalem itself—past, present, and future.

For thousands of years, Jerusalem has been the geographic center of the world for the Jewish and Christian imagination. With the shift from twentieth-century conflicts of political ideology to twenty-first-century conflicts of religion, the city now also occupies a central role on the stage of world affairs.

However, it has not always been so. With the exception of a few brilliant eras of power and prosperity, Jerusalem has largely been a backwater town—taking a backseat to Damascus, Samaria, Caesarea, and— more recently—Tel Aviv. Remote from the major trade routes and lacking in natural resources or agricultural capacity, Jerusalem had little to recommend it.

Theology thrives on problems.  Of course, there is more to theology than just problems.  Theological reflection is driven by an impulse inherent in biblical faith.  That impulse pushes us to seek the meaning and implications of what we believe. God is Truth; theology ponders this Truth, in obedient response to the summons of Truth itself.

That said, the history of Jewish and Christian thought makes clear the essential role of problems in theological development.  Theological breakthroughs have occurred when Jews and Christians have faced unavoidable challenges to their convictions.  As a classic example, the theological vision of the Talmud emerged in part as a creative response to the challenges posed by the adoption of Christianity as the official religion of the Roman Empire.

For much of Jewish history, theology has had a low profile.   There are many reasons for this, but one that is often unrecognized is the unproblematic nature of Judaism for generations of traditional Jews.  Between the close of the Talmud and the modern era, the Jewish community led a relatively self-contained existence.  Within the community, basic theological convictions were assumed rather than argued.  In such a setting, spiritual life may thrive—but theology usually lies dormant.