It’s no surprise that many Americans are increasingly skeptical of organized religion. For years, rumors of abuse circulated within Catholic parishes, and when the truth emerged, few were truly shocked. What did shock—and appall—many was the extent of the cover-up by those in positions of authority. Yet we can’t lay all the blame for tarnishing the name of God on the Catholic Church alone. The legacy of televangelists like Jim Bakker and Jim Swaggart lingers in public memory. And who can forget Jim Jones, whose megalomania led to the destruction of so many lives in Jonestown? More recently, we’ve seen prominent figures in the Evangelical world fall under scrutiny for financial and sexual misconduct.
Judaism is not immune either. Some recent rulings by ultra-Orthodox (Haredi) authorities have led to ostracism and hardship for members of their own community, especially those who seek to balance religious observance with engagement in science or secular careers. These rulings have stirred resentment and division within the Jewish world and fostered suspicion in the wider community. And we are also familiar with reports of unethical or even violent behavior by some groups toward Messianic Jews in Israel.
Yet in the midst of these failures, we must not allow cynicism to have the final word. For every leader who has stumbled, there are many more who quietly and faithfully seek to serve God with integrity. Ironically, the accusations of hypocrisy that often come against the religious only make sense if we already assume that religious people aspire to higher standards. That’s exactly the point of this week’s Torah portion.
In Leviticus 19:2, God tells Moses, “Speak to the whole assembly of Israel and say to them: ‘Be holy, because I, the Lord your God, am holy.’” This single verse has been called “the Bible in miniature.” It speaks both a warning—against Chillul HaShem, the desecration of God’s name—and a call—to Kiddush HaShem, the sanctification of God’s name through how we live and, if need be, how we die.
Jewish history is filled with examples of Kiddush HaShem. Countless Jews went to their deaths in the Holocaust reciting the Shema, echoing the faith of Rabbi Akiva who, even as he was tortured by the Romans, praised God’s name. And no greater act of self-sacrifice exists than that of the crucified Messiah, who in his dying breath cried out, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” These acts of holiness stand in sharp contrast to religious figures who commodify faith, selling God’s name like any other product. I’ve learned over a lifetime that true holiness isn’t something you can brand or market.
Holiness isn’t just about avoiding obvious wrongdoing, it’s about choosing the high road, even when you’re entitled to something more. Consider Simeon ben Shetach, the head of the Sanhedrin before the Common Era. He earned his living in the linen trade. One day his students gave him a donkey they had bought from an Arab. Around the donkey’s neck was a valuable jewel. By Jewish law, Simeon wasn’t obligated to return it, but he did. “The Arab sold the donkey, not the jewel,” he said. When he returned it, the Arab exclaimed, “Blessed be the God of Simeon ben Shetach!”
This kind of holiness can show up in unexpected places.
When I was a child, my family made an annual trip to New York’s Lower East Side before school started. The goal? Stock up on socks and underwear at bargain prices. While my parents relished the hunt, I felt overwhelmed by the crowded streets and overzealous shopkeepers who would do anything to keep us in their stores. Their high-pressure sales tactics made me anxious—and that discomfort never left me. To this day, I cringe at being oversold, whether it’s by telemarketers, marketing gimmicks, or religious zealots who reduce faith to a sales pitch.
Truth is too important to be reduced to bumper stickers and catchphrases. And sadly, in today’s media-saturated world, that’s exactly what’s happening. Faith is marketed with slogans, slogans shouted on billboards, flyers, websites, social media, and even graffiti. Yet the sacred call to “Be holy, because I the Lord your God am holy” dares to ask something deeper. It links holiness to action—not to recruiting or repeating mantras.
So, what should the Messianic Jewish community do? Should we retreat, keep quiet to avoid misunderstanding or controversy? Some believe we already have. But the solution is not silence or isolation. It’s attitude.
Do we believe we’re better than our neighbors? Do we think we’re somehow untouched by the world’s brokenness? Or can we live in the tension of being “new creations in Messiah” while fully present in the human condition, sharing in its joys, pains, and responsibilities?
If the Jewish people are truly our people—not just a theological category—we should be able to recognize and honor their wisdom, values, and history, even when we differ. The Jewish idea of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) teaches that each of us bears responsibility for healing creation. This is echoed in the New Testament, where Peter suggests we can “hasten” the coming of Messiah—not by magic, but through faithful, redemptive living.
This idea also resonates with Chai, the value of life. Creation, though marred by evil, is still glorious. Paul likens our current condition to a woman in labor—agonizing, yes, but full of hope. Just as no mother would trade the joy of giving life to avoid the pain of childbirth, we shouldn’t abandon our calling to bring God’s hope into the world just because it’s hard.
This doesn’t mean we ignore doctrine. But if we insist that everyone fit into a tight theological box before we engage with them, we’ve missed the point. Yeshua constantly challenged religious gatekeepers who put rules above people.
Since Yeshua told us to “love your neighbor as yourself,” our faith must be relational. This doesn’t mean watering down our convictions. It means living them with humility and consistency—letting others see God’s love through our actions. We can affirm God’s presence not just in miracles or worship, but also in the arts, science, literature, music, and daily work. Faith that truly engages culture is faith that heals.
If we want to make a difference, we must be present—in medicine, in politics, in humanitarian work, in education, and beyond. Feeding the hungry, comforting the brokenhearted, walking with the suffering—these are not optional extras; they are prophetic imperatives.
Yes, we must also pray. We must remain open to God’s Spirit. But prayer and action go hand in hand. James reminds us that faith without works is dead. For the weary soul, both are like chicken soup: comforting, strengthening, healing.
Legendary Jewish novelist Chaim Potok once told a story about choosing to become a writer. His mother urged him to become a doctor instead—someone who could save lives and make a good living. After graduation, she made one last plea: “Help people not to die.” He replied, “I don’t want to stop people from dying—I want to teach them how to live.” That is Kiddush HaShem in action.
Eternal life means little if it has no impact on the here and now. But if the Olam HaBa (world to come) shapes how we live in the Olam HaZeh (this world), then eternal life starts today. In that case, we become vessels of redemption—living reminders that God is still at work, even in a weary and cynical world.
Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote: “Great is the challenge that we face every moment, sublime the occasion, every occasion. Here we are contemporaries of God, some of His power at our disposal.” Let us rise to that occasion.