With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I find my thoughts drifting already to that most wonderful of all holidays.  In my mind though, the modern version can't keep pace with its ancient counterpart.  No, I'm not referring to the 17th century colonial American first pilgrim harvest.  I am speaking about a Thanksgiving that makes the one observed in the Plymouth Colony look recent by comparison:  The First-Fruits Festival in ancient Israel.    Let me give you a quick tour.

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A curious thing occurred in our intensive Hebrew class this August (see previous blog "August Language").  The first day of the course was the first day of the solar month (August, 2011), which coincided interestingly with the first day of the lunar month, called Av by ancient and modern Jews.  While not unheard of, this concurrence is quite rare in calendrical cycles.  I could recall no other occurrence of the phenomenon in my nearly forty years of teaching Hebrew.

For the past twenty-five years, August for me has been a language month.  Let me explain.  At the seminary in which I teach, the biblical languages are offered in intensive format for those desiring to delve into the deeper dimensions of the Bible.  For four weeks every August for the past quarter century, I have taught eager learners to read the classical Hebrew language of the Bible.
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TENTS, TAKE II

If you are reading my blogs, you will recall my "tent talk" a week or so ago ["At Home in God's Tent"].  There we reflected upon the importance of the tent as a symbol of "home" to the seasonally migrating people of early Israel.  To a desert people, the tent was far more than just a place where they spent their days and nights.  It was the defining unit of their society without soil; the insuring hope of protection against hostile elements, both natural and human.  The tent meant security, connectedness and belonging to its inhabitants.  No wonder that after sedentism (transition from nomadic to permanent settling) occurs and the nation emerges in a permanent homeland, the tent retains its nostalgic impact upon their imagination.  One can take people out of the desert, but never the desert out of people.