they were a map, and emes was the compass.
Elliot’s days took on a rhythm, like a heartbeat syncing with something eternal. Mornings, he’d brew coffee—black, no sugar—and sit at his wobbly kitchen table, the Chumash open, a notebook scribbled with gematria and questions. He’d read about Moses, who stood before a burning bush and argued with God, too human to feel worthy yet chosen anyway (Exodus 3:4-11). “And He said, ‘I will be with you’” (Exodus 3:12). That promise stuck with Elliot. God didn’t promise ease; He promised presence. It was enough.
One afternoon, while parsing Shemot Rabbah (2:2) in the library, Elliot read a Midrash about Moses’ staff—ordinary wood transformed into a vessel for miracles because Moses trusted God’s call. The rabbis said faith turned the mundane into the divine. Elliot glanced at his own life: a cheap apartment, a used laptop, a part-time job. Could faith make his ordinary life a vessel too? He wrote in his notebook: Emes transforms. Truth makes the small big.
Gematria kept unveiling secrets. He calculated “Moshe” (משה): mem = 40, shin = 300, heh = 5. Total: 345. Then he found “Hashem” (יהוה): yud = 10, heh = 5, vav = 6, heh = 5. Total: 26. Alone, they were just numbers. But together, 345 + 26 = 371, the value of “u’fachad” (ופחד), meaning “and fear” or “awe” (as in Deuteronomy 28:58, linked to reverence for God). Moses plus God equaled awe. Elliot felt it—a shiver of connection, like the Torah was speaking directly to him, a non-Jew with no claim to its promises yet claimed by its truth.
His faith was tested. Winter hit Pittsburgh hard, and his heating bill doubled. He’d cut his teaching hours to 20 a week, prioritizing study, and his savings were thinning. One night, staring at a $300 shortfall for rent, he felt the old panic creep in—the voice that said faith was a luxury, that he was a fool. He opened his Chumash to Joseph, who rose from a pit to a palace because he trusted God’s plan through betrayal and prison (Genesis 37:24, 41:41-44). “The LORD was with Joseph, and he became a successful man” (Genesis 39:2). Elliot underlined it, his pen shaking. If God was with Joseph in Egypt, He could be with Elliot in Pittsburgh.
The next day, a letter arrived—an overpayment refund from his old job, $320. He laughed out loud, tears stinging his eyes. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was exact. He thought of the Gemara in Taanit 25a, where Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa’s wife prayed for sustenance, and a hand from heaven delivered just enough flour for bread. The rabbis said God provides “day by day,” not in excess but in precision. Elliot taped a new verse to his fridge: “Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that is needful for me” (Proverbs 30:8, echoed in Midrash Mishlei for its trust in divine balance).
His transformation wasn’t just financial. Elliot started noticing people—really noticing. At the food bank, he met Tariq, a mechanic who’d lost his shop to debt. Tariq’s anger was palpable, his fists clenched as he picked up canned beans. Elliot didn’t preach. Instead, he shared a story from the Torah—Job, who lost everything yet said, “The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD” (Job 1:21, linked to Berachot 54a where the rabbis praise blessing God in pain). Tariq listened, his shoulders loosening. “You believe that stuff?” he asked.
“It’s not just belief,” Elliot said. “It’s what I’m living.”
Tariq came back the next week, quieter, asking about the book Elliot kept mentioning. Elliot gave him a spare Tanakh, no strings attached. He didn’t know if Tariq read it, but he saw the spark again—that hunger for meaning.
Elliot’s own hunger grew. He dove into the prophets, landing on Isaiah: “But they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles” (Isaiah 40:31). The verse, expounded in Midrash Tanchuma (Ekev 2) as a call to trust God’s timing, became his mantra. He wasn’t soaring yet, but he was moving—step by step, verse by verse. Gematria added depth: “kavod” (כבוד), glory or honor, was 32 (kaf = 20, bet = 2, vav = 6, dalet = 4). So was “lev” (לב), heart. Glory and heart, linked numerically. Studying Torah was giving Elliot both—a heart alive with purpose, a life touched by glory.
One spring evening, as cherry blossoms drifted past his window, Elliot sat with the Gemara (Shabbat 31a), where Hillel summarizes the Torah: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.” Simple, but profound. Elliot realized he’d been living it—listening to Maria at the food bank, tutoring Jaden for free, helping Tariq carry groceries. Torah wasn’t just study; it was action. He calculated “chesed” (חסד), kindness: chet = 8, samech = 60, dalet = 4. Total: 72. The same as “gimmel” (גמל), to give or repay. Kindness was its own reward, a cycle of provision.
His life wasn’t perfect. He still ate ramen some nights, still worried when the car made weird noises. But he wasn’t afraid anymore. The Torah had rewired him. He thought of David, the shepherd-king who wrote, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105). The Midrash (Midrash Tehillim 119:19) said David’s psalms were born from struggle, yet they glowed with trust. Elliot felt that glow. His needs—rent, food, gas—were met, not lavishly but faithfully. He didn’t need more.
One day, Saul, the librarian, handed him a flyer for a Torah study group. “You’re not Jewish,” Saul said, “but you’re wrestling with this like Jacob. Come.” Elliot went, nervous, expecting to feel out of place. Instead, he found a room of seekers—Jews, Christians, agnostics—arguing over Leviticus like it was a treasure map. He shared his gematria finds, hesitant at first, but their eyes lit up. A woman named Rachel, a rabbi-in-training, said, “You’re seeing the Torah’s soul.”
That night, Elliot walked home under a sky thick with stars, humming a verse he’d memorized: “The law of the LORD is perfect, reviving the soul; the testimony of the LORD is sure, making wise the simple” (Psalm 19:7). He wasn’t simple anymore. He was awake, alive, tethered to emes. The Torah had found him, a man who’d once chased nothing, and given him everything—not wealth, not fame, but a life where every bill paid, every meal eaten, every moment of study felt like a gift from the God of Israel.
He didn’t know where the path would lead. Maybe he’d keep teaching, maybe he’d write about the Torah, maybe he’d just keep studying until the day he died. But he knew one thing: as long as he walked with truth, God would provide. And that was enough.