Parshas Balak: Unsaid Words

There has been a great deal of ink shared over the last many years about the dissolution of language, about how texting has degraded the language of the current generations. Whatever changes technology has wrought, one basic fact does not change, and that fact is the importance of clear communications. When left to one’s own interpretation, the words that are said or heard are often just as significant as the words that are unsaid and unheard.

Parshas Balak relates the events that occurred as Bnei Yisrael skirted the border of the Promised Land. King Balak, worried that Bnei Yisrael would displace him, sent messengers to Bilaam, who was a man blessed with prophecy and a unique relationship to Hashem. Balak wanted Bilaam to curse the Israelites, which Bilaam agreed to do but… In Parshas Balak things go slightly wrong throughout the narrative (he ends up blessing Bnei Yisrael), and one cannot help but reflect on the significance of the communication. Let us look at a few of the missed messages.

While the opening verses make it clear that Balak knows exactly who is at his border, when he sends his messengers to Bilaam he appears to deliberately avoid naming the nation. Balak refers to the Israelites as “a people come out of Egypt” (Bamidbar 22:5). In so doing, in leaving their name unsaid, Balak is attempting to diminish their might in the eyes of Bilaam. They are not a nation blessed by Divine guidance, they are merely a people that came out of Egypt (which, while no small feat on its own, negates acknowledging how they came out of Egypt, the splitting of the Sea, Mount Sinai, and etc). In choosing to ignore these important defining moments of the nation, Balak chooses the path of “that which shall not be named”; if I do not say it, it is not real.

It is interesting to note that this verbal diminishing of Bnei Yisrael continues subtly in Balak’s second request. His envoys conclude their message to Bilaam by asking him to “curse me this people,” whereas when Hashem responded to Bilaam’s first request, Hashem referes to Bnei Yisrael as The People. (Bamidbar 22:17, 22:12). "This" and "the" seem like insignificant differences, and yet it has a subtle nuance. By referring to Bnei Yisrael as The People, Hashem is making it clear to Bilaam that He has elevated the Israelites to a unique status. There is no other Am like Am Yisrael.

Whereas Balak makes a choice not to name Bnei Yisrael, Bilaam makes a choice not to understand Hashem’s response, which is strange since in the basic text it seems very clear what Hashem does not want Bilaam to do. Hashem says to him: “You shall not go with them; You shall not curse the people; for they are blessed” (22:12). Bilaam chooses not to hear this as a definite statement (although I am not sure how one can see it as anything else) and comes back to Hashem to ask again. He hears no danger in Hashem’s response “If these men have come to invite you, you may go with them. But whatever I command you, that you shall do” (22:20). Any parent clearly hears the classic line of “Fine, but if you break your leg do not complain to me!” Bilaam does go, but his attempts to curse the people go completely sideways and he blesses them instead.

The sad truth is that human beings have been deliberately miscommunicating with each other since time immemorial (since Adam and Chava, truth be told). It is a way for us to try to take control in our lives. Balak wanted to believe that Bnei Yisrael were just a nation. Bilaam wanted to hear that he had permission to go and curse Bnei Yisrael. What we can learn from Balak and Bilaam and this Parsha in general, however, is that just because we choose to reframe our communication to the way we want the world to be, this does not change how Hashem wants it to be. It is, alas, no easy task to let go of that level of control and recognize that Hashem put us in every place, every situation, and every interaction. Each of us may say that X or Y is not what we want, but that choice is not always ours. Only when we see reality, see the Divine hand in our lives, can we begin to discover a different path because then we can address the true source of our challenges and receive help from the ultimate source.

I would like to point out an additional thought. Parshas Balak contains the strange piece of Bilaam’s talking donkey. As he head towards Bnei Yisrael, a fiery angel blocks his path, but only the donkey can see it. She stops. She pushes against the wall, hurting Bilaam in the process of trying to protect herself and her rider. Bilaam responds by hitting her and trying to force her forward. Finally, the donkey speaks! She asks Bilaam why he is hitting her when she has always served him so faithfully. In a discussion of Parshas Balak and straight communication, could not one ask why the donkey did not say “Don't you see the fiery angel before us?” to explain her behavior? However, in this case, the fact that there is a fiery angel before her is irrelevant. She has been faithful to him throughout his ownership. And yet at this first prostration of a task, he beats her. The language here does not matter because her behavior is another form of communication that we all too often overlook - the gut senses that Hashem sends us. Hashem wants us to make the right choices. If we see the fiery angel, we no longer have the same choices. Hashem will not tell us what to do - that’s free will - but he does try to guide us. Our job, however, is to listen and perceive.

Parshas Chukas: How Serpents Teach Acceptance

Most people would attest that there are an awful lot of things in life that are hard to understand. There are the biggies, of course – the philosophical thrillers that leave us puzzling why good things happen to bad people and vice verse- but there are also the mundane things, like why Hashem created insects to be so annoying.

Parsha Chukas contains one of the most puzzling acts commanded in the Torah, the parah adumah (red hefer) and then waves a flag at its inexplicability by calling it out as a chok, a mitzvah for which there is no rational explanation. But, rather interestingly, Parshas Chukas contains several other items that leave one scratching one’s head and asking for more details, for an explanation.

One example of this could almost be framed as the ever-present question of someone “dying before their time.” That is the type of phrase one hears when a person passes away young or without having fulfilled a specific goal. Neither Aaron nor Moshe were young when they died, but Bnei Yisrael expected them to be with them when they entered the Promised Land. In Parshas Chukas, however, not only is Aaron’s death recorded, but this is where we read how Moshe hit the rock instead of talking to it and lost his right to enter the Land with the people. The Midrash and commentaries provide a multitude of explanations, but just reading about the incident leaves one mystified by the cause of such a strong consequence.

Another rather puzzling incident in Parshas Chukas is the punishment of the snakes. It appears that the “fiery serpents” were sent as a result of another round of complaining from the people, for the repetition of the same old litany of “Better we should have died in Egypt.” When the snake bites caused deaths, the people repented, and Hashem told Moshe to make a snake and set it on a pole and anyone who stared at it would live. That’s it. That is the whole section of the snakes, and it is only six verses long. And yet it leaves us with a vast list of why. Why were they even complaining? Why was this complaining different than the previous complaining? Why did Hashem have Moshe make a copper snake, and was this not a risk of seeming like Avodah Zarah?

It is interesting to note that this is the last round of kvetching in the Midbar that is recorded in the Torah. Perhaps, in some way, this is related to Hashem’s choice of serpents to dispense punishment and a serpent to provide the cure. Other than the staff turned into a serpent in Pharaoh’s court, the only other nachash (serpent) in the Torah is the serpent who offered Chavah the fruit of the Eitz Hadas, the tree of knowledge of good and evil. The nachash introduced discontent to Chavah in the words he used to entice her toward the tree. By eating from the Eitz Hadas, Chava and Adam transformed the yetzer harah (the evil inclination) from an external to an internal force. Their descendants forevermore had to make decisions on right and wrong, and the complainers were making the wrong choice. Before the Eitz Hadas, in Gan Eden (the Garden of Eden), everything a person needed was provided. So too, in the Midbar, Hashem provided for all of the needs of Bnei Yisrael. Each time they chose to complain, and perhaps especially this time when the verses just before record their success in taking the cities of Arad and for which they should have felt empowered, they were choosing to follow the path set out by the nachash so many generations ago.

This, perhaps, speaks to the overall theme of Parshas Chukas. Human nature demands answers, seeks knowledge – but not all answers are for us to know. Why do the ashes of the Red Hefer purify those made impure by the dead but make impure the person who performs the act? Why did Moshe get punished for such a seemingly simple mistake? Why were Aaron and Moshe kept from entering the Promised Land? To every question the most basic answer is that Hashem knew why. Hashem sees the patterns and the far, far longer picture.

That Hashem knows everything does not mean that one cannot ask questions. Questions are important. Questions are active and involved. Most importantly, questions are very different from complaints. Complaints take away a person’s responsibility for their life and lay the blame of all things on the party to whom or about whom they are complaining. That here, in Parshas Chukas, Hashem sent serpents may be a reminder, for the people in the Midbar and for all of the generations to come, that complaining is a direct result of the sin of the Eitz Hadas. Bnei Yisrael are, ultimately, on a mission to rectify that sin, not repeat it.

In studying Torah, it is easy for us to see how Hashem provided for everything in the Midbar, but obviously the people were not able to see that. So too, in our own lives, Hashem provides us with what we need – with what we need to fulfill our role in the world which only He has a clear picture of. You can question that role or the fulfillment of those needs. You can even challenge the path your life is taking. That is one of the many reasons that we have prayer in our lives, that there is teshuva. But complaining is a declaration that one does not believe that Hashem is providing. It comes from that internalized yetzer harah that thinks that our eating from the Eitz Hadas gives us not only access, but the right to access, knowledge far beyond a person’s ability to understand the greater picture of the world.

Parshas Chukas begins with a law that seems a contradiction and that teaches us how we must accept that which we cannot understand. This, in truth, is all the laws of the Torah. Indeed, this is life in this world. Our job is to do the most with what we have and where we are, and to trust that Hashem knows what is best for each of us.

Parshas Korach: Am I Wicked?

 A philosophical question about evil: Do wicked people know that they are wicked? Haven’t you ever wondered how murderous dictators sleep at night? Of course, that is an extreme example. Perhaps at the opposite end of the spectrum of examples might be the town gossip who knowingly shares private information. This may seem a strange musing, but it really boils down to the question of how do wicked people view themselves? A piece of the puzzle might be found in Parshas Korach.

In Parshas Korach there are three fascinating antagonists who, if they were given the opportunity to write the story of their own lives, would probably paint themselves as heroic figures. Although the Torah makes it clear that Korach, Dasan, and Aviram were wrong, it also records their actions in such a way as one might sympathise with their cause (as it does also for Eisav and Ishmael). It is through Midrash that we come to understand them, and one could wonder – particularly in the case of Korach – if they even understood themselves.

According to the text, Korach appeared to really care about equality among Bnei Yisrael. His qualm is stated as concern that Moshe and Aaron had taken too many roles of leadership that should have been more widely distributed. His premise was that all of Bnei Yisrael was equally holy, for they had all stood in the presence of Hashem. It is only through the oral traditions that are integral to Torah that we begin to understand his psychology, and it is interesting because one could see it hinted at in the first word of the parsha: “Vayikach Korach, and Korach took” (16:1). Korach “took issue” and brought it to others. From his perspective, he saw Moshe and Aaron as having taken leadership roles, not as having been given leadership roles by Hashem. He saw Moshe as having taken power because inherently that was what Korach wanted to do. The Midrash explains that Korach’s fatal flaw was that he wanted power, wanted that kavod, for himself. But the question remains, if we need the Midrash to explain this to us, isn’t it possible that Korach was unaware of his true motivations? Isn’t it possible that he himself believed that his motives were pure?

Dasan and Aviram are another matter. They are known consistently through the Midrash as instigators, as troublemakers who seem to almost take pride in bringing contention. With that in mind, one might then question whether it is fair to judge them if their personalities are just contentious by nature. Once again, the question comes down to honest goals and motivations. Dasan and Aviram did not try to help Bnei Yisrael, even if they couched their words in a communal framework. They simply tried, over and over, to break down the leadership, the cohesiveness, and the forward moving motion of the nation. They did so because they could, because they felt powerful acting in this way. They lived for the adrenaline of the fight, not for the actual results. Those types of motivations, however, are often completely subconscious. Most people would not admit – to others or even to themselves – that they like causing others to fight, but they nevertheless sow the seeds of discord (and grab some popcorn to watch!).

That there is enough psychological information to question whether Korach, Dasan, and Aviram were actively wicked – were men who knowingly chose wrong – can help one understand Moshe’s strange, short tefilla recorded in 16:15: “And Moshe was greatly aggrieved, and he said to Hashem ‘Pay no regard to their oblations. I have not taken a donkey of any one of them, nor have I wronged any one of them.’” Why would Moshe even think he needed to defend his honesty and actions unless he believed that these men had enough good intentions not to know how wicked their actions were and to actually have enough merit to give weight to their complaint.

Additionally, the fact that Moshe asks Hashem not to recognize their oblations – their offerings of the mincha – could indicate that these men did not view themselves as wicked. They saw themselves as average people of the community, and Moshe’s concern for the acceptance of their mincha offering could be an answer to whether people who are wicked pray like people who are good. Of course, they do! Even people who know they are doing wrong – let’s say an embezzler – find ways to excuse their actions, to find rationalizations and self-revised history. Korach, when he stood up and questioned Moshe, had made himself believe that he was trying to help everybody.

If intentions and motivations matter so much, was Korach’s punishment fair. For that matter, should he have been punished at all if he erred in his behavior but his intentions were kosher? The Torah asks people to be honest with themselves. It is not written out in any text, but it is everywhere in the topography of halacha. If intentions matter, then knowing oneself – digging in and really assessing one’s intentions – is a necessary skill. Here is a common example: On a minor fast day, a person who is not feeling well is permitted to eat, but that person holds the responsibility of knowing if they really do not feel well or if they are hoping to break the fast.

Korach could have stood down. He could have heard Moshe warning him of the great responsibility that was now resting upon him and realized that his fight could greatly harm Klal Yisrael because Moshe had no hesitation in putting the challenge before Hashem. More than that, when Korach and the Levites were confronted by Moshe with a bit of perspective, they didn’t change. Moshe said: “Now that He has advanced you and all your fellow Levites with you, do you seek the priesthood too? Truly, it is against Hashem that you and all your company have banded together. For who is Aaron that you should rail against him?” (16:10-11). Not only does Moshe point out their already existing elevation, but he removes himself from his umbrage at being their target. Korach here has plenty of time to reassess his complaint from a different view and put an end to the rebellion. And if it was not about his own ego, his own pride, Korach could have seen it.

Why did Korach deserve his punishment? From one perspective it is because he could not recognize his own wickedness, he would not acknowledge his ego and pride, and he did not want to hear that he might be wrong. From Korach we can each take a powerful lesson about being honest with ourselves and about the importance of evaluating our motives and our own rationalizations.

Parshas Shelach - They Gave Their Voices, They Made Their Choice

From a 21st century point of view, every action, and in particular every reaction, has a source and a reason. Modern culture has made it an art to find a label, and perhaps, a diagnosis for just about everything. Indeed, a few months ago there was a radio ad in Quebec in which a woman voiced her frustration that female workers were now suffering from “extreme exasperation syndrom.” But the cold, hard fact of the matter is that every person has free will - every person makes a choice in how they act. Sometimes the influences within or without are difficult to resist, but, nevertheless, there is almost always some measure of culpability for one's actions.

Pages upon pages of commentaries and discussions have been written about Parshas Shelach and the underlying reasons for the actions of both the scouts who gave a negative report about the Promised Land and the reaction of the people to their report. From a modern pop-psychology point of view, one might even say that Hashem’s punishment, which was the forestalling of the nation’s entry into the Promised Land until after the generation died out, was unfair since the generation was burdened with the trauma of slavery and impeded by a lack of confidence in their spiritual acceptability. And yet, at the apex of the narrative, there is an intriguing placement of words that could be read as a potent reminder of free will; "Va’tisa kol ha’aida, ba’yitnu es koolam. Va’yivkoo ha’am ba’layla ha’hoo. And the congregation lifted up, and they gave their voices. And the people wept that night” (Number 14:1).

This is a grammatically interesting verse. There are two sentences, so the speak, in this verse. They separated from each other by the esnachta trop. Also, the first of these two sentences is divided by a zaken katon trop into two separate phrases. With these grammatical nuances in mind, let us look again at the actions of the nation. Va’tisa is based on a verb that means to lift up or carry. It would be completely within the norms of Biblical grammar for it to be written here that the congregation lifted up their voices, for indeed this construct is used elsewhere in the Torah ("and Eisav raised up his voice and cried"). Instead, the Torah states that the congregation lifted themselves up, and then the Torah adds another verb and direct object: Va’yitnu, which is from the verb to give (and they gave). Herein we see that there is a choice of action implied in the the active nature of this verb.

Furthermore, it is interesting to note that the first verb phrase is singular; the congregation was lifted up together as a unit. The whole congregation suffered from a reaction to the words of the scouts, from the incongruity of what they expected from the Promised land, and from the frightening need for conquest being described. The second phrase, however, is in the third person plural (Va’yitnu es koolum, They raised their voices), which infers that now each voice was the voice of an individual within a larger group.

The response to the words of the scouts started out as a national reaction, but that unity was false, for each person gave their own voice. When they cried through the night - again with phraseology set in third person plural - they each cried from their own fear, and anguish, and insecurity. They cried through the night because the night is when we process the information we are given throughout the day. And they cried individually, but collectively, because their bitachon - their trust in God's active guidance - was gone, dashed as a result of truth spoken wrongly by the scouts. The scouts did not lie. After all, they were well-respected leaders of their tribes. However, they told the truth as they wanted it to be understood, and that use of truth without honesty undermined everything that Bnei Yisrael was building (With the exclusion of Yehoshua and Kalev, who understood that their mission was not about themselves and their feelings or their perceptions, but about the path laid out for them by Hashem.) The people cried through the night because their minds were trying to process all of the events of the day: the truths of the scouts, the truth spoken by Kalev, the emotions of the nation as a whole, the plethora of voices that they heard among their fellows, and also their own reactions to which they had given voice.

Perhaps, after having actively joined in the national reaction, the majority of the people felt broken, and this was why they "murmured against Moshe and Aaron" (14:2). Perhaps having seen themselves take one step off the derech (path) provided, they thought there was no alternative but to wish to go back to Mitzrayim, to a place and a time when they had no free will, no choices to make. Additionally, one might note that there is a not uncommon reaction in people when they make a large error or are greatly embarrassed by something they have done: to think or even state, with belief or not, that they wished they were dead. It is a feeling of wishing to avoid the consequences of the mistake, even when those consequences are not, in the end, truely dire. Humans do not like to acknowledge their wrong doing, and, in the face of a large mistake in which they know they were culpable, there is a desire to change reality. Thus the people could utter "if only we had died in the wilderness" (14:2).

There are many ways in which the situation of the People of Israel could have been different. Even in this one situation, there are a thousand different ways we could wish there had been different reactions. They could have listened to the honesty of Kalev’s report. They could have prayed for guidance instead of turning on Yehoshua, Moshe, and Aaron. They could have immediately repented for giving voice to their fears. But even as they expressed a wish to alter history - to go back to Mitzrayim or to have died in the Wilderness, which was really a wish not to be in their current situation - they had opportunities to choose a different path. They did not. They continued to rebel, even to the point of being so stubborn as to mount an attack after they had been punished and thus completely missing the point of bitachon.

We could sit for hours and dissect their motivations, their reactions, their histories, and their psychologies. In the end, however, it does not matter. What matters is the actions. What matters is the choices we make and the way in which we use our free-will.

Parsha Behaaloscha - The Source of the Taiva

In a parsha whose name seems to speak of a path of elevation – Behaaloscha, In your Going Up – it is interesting to find a chapter that speaks of a path of descent, of Bnei Yisrael falling low. The chapter is Perek t“h, and the main discussion of the perek is the complaints of the people about their food in the Midbar. It is a fascinating study in human psychology. The complaining in Perek t“h is not a single extended event, but it is sequential. It begins with a general sense of unease, a feeling among the people that leads them to grumble or look askance or even to just have heavy hearts of malcontent. It earns them God’s ire and Moshe’s prayers.

 

The second situation is, according to 11:4, set off by the riffraff, the camp followers whose allegiance to Hashem and the nation is highly suspect. They do not trust Hashem, and their lack of essential emuna undermines Bnei Yisrael. The people begin to speak of a longing for the foods they once ate in Egypt because food is comfort, it’s the familiar, and it gives direction to the sense of unease that is building inside of them. By looking back to Egypt, by looking at the outside world, they build false memories of a happier life. These false memories overshadow the facts, block out their ability to see the brachos that they have before them – namely at this juncture, the blessing of the manna, which fell as dew and, according to the Midrash, tasted like whatever a person wished it to taste.

 

This second time of discontent was almost as subtle as the first, and yet it was far more damaging. It undermined the nation because the people feared openly expressing their feelings. Perhaps each complaint seemed petty in their mind, and so they let it sit inside and fester. Or perhaps they did not wish to bother Moshe, but instead they let their unease continue to build within. By never speaking openly of their thoughts, however, they never had the opportunity to question them. Instead, they spoke of their longing and worries only in close quarters, in ways that created echo chambers and perpetual angst.

 

The final act of discontent is not a complaint. There are no words spoken. Rather it was expressed in action. When Hashem blew a squall of quails off course to land at the encampment of Bnei Yisrael, the Israelites gathered them with more than just enthusiasm. They gathered the quail “day and night and all the next day” (Bamidbar 11:32). Hashem presented them a path to what they thought they wanted, and those who were overwhelmed with taiva, with desire, fell to it in a way that proved that they could not be ovdei Hashem (servants of Hashem), for they were so detached from themselves they could fall upon the meat like animals. They gathered it day and night and all the next day, and it was a contrast to the Manna, which was gathered once a day – a sufficient amount. The quail made them ill. Their gluttony proved their disrespect and disregard for the steady, comforting blessing of manna that came from Hashem.

 

The underlying tragedy of the incident of the quail – highlighted by the language of the beginning of the perek that the people were like mourners or that the people took to complaining – was that the discontent really came from within, not from actual deprivation. The people were rife with emotions. They were overwhelmed at their new spiritual undertaking and believed they would not live up to Hashem’s expectations (R’ Shimshon Rafael Hirsch). They were disturbed by the tediousness of the journey (Rashbam) and the discomforts of travel (Rabbeinu Bahya). They were worried and already sorrowful at the thought of fighting (and perhaps of people dying) to conquer the land (Daas Zkainim). In modern terms, one might say that the people complained about food because it was familiar, that they “ate their emotions.”

 

What, one might then ask, is the connection of this discontentment to the secondary theme of Perek t“h, which is the granting of prophecy to the 70 elders who were gathered together at God’s command? Perhaps they were called forth now as a counterweight to the erev rav, the riffraff who lacked any spiritual anchor. Hashem granted them a share of the Holy Spirit that rested upon Moshe and, in so doing, allowed the entire nation to see that what Hashem asked of them was possible, that the promises He made were far more real than the watermelons they dreamed of back in Egypt. Instead of one man (Moshe) to whom some could probably not relate, Hashem gave them a Sanhedrin, a court of elders to whom they could look to find guidance – men who had come from backgrounds similar to their own.  

 

The choosing of the elders happened before the quail arrived, and it seems that the goal of returning hope and joy and a spiritual goal worked for many of the people. While the Torah says that the people went out to gather the quail, it does not say all of the people, and when the Torah records those who died of the gluttonous plague, the Torah says that the place was named as a reminder of those who had had the craving, inferring that not all of the people grabbed for the quail.

 

In a parsha titled with a theme of elevation, the discrepancy of a chapter detailing the nation’s descent into discontentedness may seem out of place, until one remembers that the Torah is a guidebook. Perek t“h demonstrates how something that seems like an external taiva (craving, desire) – in this case the quail – may, indeed, be a deeper reflection of a spiritual anxiety, and the way to sooth a spiritual anxiety is to draw oneself close to those who have a deep spiritual connection and can help you raise yourself up.

 

  

Parsha Naso – What the Nazir Saw

 The commentators say that the reason the portion of the Nazarite comes immediately after the discussion of the Sotah is because anyone who has seen the Sotah in her disgrace will wish to abstain from wine in order to avoid such a scenario happening again. This statement brings to mind the frequent conversations that one now sees online about the effects of trauma, driving home a bit of understanding at how horrific it was for others to witness the Sotah ceremony or perhaps even to witness the deterioration of the relationship that led to the ceremony.

The Sotah, the wife accused of adulterous behavior who must drink from a ritual formula that could, if she is guilty, cause “her belly shall distend and her thigh shall sag” (Numbers 5:27), is a drastic seeming section of the Torah. As horrible as one might perceive it, especially from a 21st century point of view where such strict monogamy seems to no longer be an accepted cultural norm beyond the religious community, there is much to be fascinated about in the Torah’s description of the process. Most particularly, the fact that great stress is placed on the husband’s attitude of jealousy and suspicion – emphasizing that getting to the point of bringing a woman forth to drink from the Sotah water is not simply a result of her behavior but of the dynamics of their relationship. Even having warned her before witnesses, the husband can choose to divorce the woman before publicly humiliating her with the test of the Sotah, before proving her wrong or, more drastically, making certain she suffers.

The fact is that it is very rare to see a Torah commandment that is so dependent on the emotional space of the people involved. And as we all know, human emotions can become extreme, which is, perhaps, what leads to the Nazarite. The person who takes a Nazarite vow is reacting to the world around them by attempting to control outside factors that influence their emotions.

The most obvious of these factors is alcohol, which a Nazir abstains from to the extreme in that the Nazir may not even taste something made with any part of the grape. Alcohol influences emotions differently for different people. In many, it lowers inhibitions, relaxes one’s concern about social mores and appropriate interactions. … which might lead to flirting and inappropriate behavior between people who should not be acting thus. It also can enhance one’s sense of self, meaning one’s righteous ire and one’s need to prove a point (often with anger – think of those notorious bar fights). In other words, it might make one more prone to jealous, suspicious thoughts even when the other party is innocent or make one prone to clutch on to a need to prove that they were right about their spouse.

Another major factor in seeking to control that which influences our emotions is attraction/love/lust. The second restriction of the Nazarite is cutting the hair, which Yochanan Kirschblum, in his book Thinking Outside the Box (published by Israel Bookshop), notes is really the only physical attribute given to us by God that we can shape and mold (without outside application such as make up). Most people put a great deal of their physical identity into their hair (or even their hair covering, in the case of married women). By letting one’s hair go “au natural,” without a razor or scissor touching the Nazir’s locks, one is setting a reminder to themselves that vanity, the primping and preening that lead to attraction/love/lust are the side of our emotional being that is connected to our more animalistic side, and one must look at one’s fellows (and be looked at by one’s fellows) for what is in their heart and soul. Looking at the world “all done up” in physical charm was, perhaps, what led to the terrible events of the Sotah.

The third powerful emotion is sorrow or despair. When a person witnesses a tragedy, particularly if it is one they have a hard time understanding the reasoning for, there is a desire to disconnect, to hide from the facts, or to fight to bring justice when one thinks justice has been mishandled. And while in this discussion, the Nazir may, perhaps, have witnessed the Sotah trial, watching a core of Jewish life be destroyed, that is a singular situation. A far more common situation is dealing with death. Witnessing or connecting to death can take a person, emotionally, out of focus from the world. The Nazir, who must, of course, still live in the world and be aware of death and sorrow, must set him or herself apart from the full impact of these emotions. The Nazir does so by refraining from any contact with a corpse, which for many people today seems easy but nevertheless having the need to remain conscientious of it at all times acts as a guard for the Nazir not to let the emotions of sorrow or despair become overwhelming.

Taking a Nazarite vow is an extreme reaction. While it is praiseworthy to want to protect oneself from letting one’s emotions become destructive, the Torah commands the Nazir to bring a sin offering at the end of their avowed time because, according to one widely held opinion, they have added unnecessary constraints to their life – perhaps inferring that the God given laws of the Torah were not enough (chas v’shalom).

It is interesting to note that the Nazir adds constraints, almost punishments, on his/her own life. The husband of the Sotah adds punishment to the life of his spouse. There is a prescribed death penalty for adultery, and there is the fact that Hashem knows all of our deeds and will offer our rewards and punishments as best suits His will. The ceremony of the Sotah, however, is for suspected adultery, and, in choosing this path rather than divorcing the wife whom he must surely have come to hate, the husband is adding his own level of punishment.

We live in a world that can be very confusing. There has been so much pain and suffering that we have witnessed – and pain and suffering always stand out, although there have been many wonderful blessings in the world as well – that it is easy to start demanding constraints and to suspect others of misbehavior and causing these tzoros. But the lesson that we can take from the Nazir and the Baal Sotah, perhaps, is to remember that Hashem created the world and gave us His Torah. Hashem and His Torah are perfect, we do not need to add to it, we need to strive harder to live up to it.

Parshas Bamidbar - Sometimes the Unexpected Happens

The third chapter of the fourth book of the Torah begins with what appears to be a straightforward recounting of the history of the kahuna, the priesthood. It does so as an introduction to the detailed accounting of the tribe of Levi, having already recorded the enumeration and placement of the other tribes in the first two perakim. All of this counting is why the English title for the book is Numbers, but in Hebrew it is called Bamidbar, In the Wilderness.

Midbar, the Hebrew word for wilderness, is actually rather interesting in itself. The core of the word is devar, which means word or thing, and the prefix mem usually represents the idea of "from," as in having come from or having derived from. This becomes even more interesting when one realizes that Bamidbar leads to Devarim, the fifth book of the Torah, which has the same core root and means "words" or "things," and which is the sefer that recaps almost all of the Torah from the Exodus on, including the laws. (Devarim is often referred to as the Mishne Torah or Second Torah.) In order to get to Devarim, to the end of the journey and the place of Hashem's words. Bnei Yisrael had to get through the wilderness.

While it is true that there are some people who prefer life on the wild side, most people by nature desire basic structure and stability. We build homes and families so that we can go about our lives with a sense of security that there is a place where our basic needs will be met. Indeed, we agree to live by rules and laws and mores so that those homes will be protected. Sometimes, however, we end up in the wilderness, whether deliberately so as one heads to new ground or by wandering because one has lost their way. This fact, that life does not always follow the plan that we expect it to, need not weaken our movement to our final goal - to structure and stability and, ultimately, to Devarim, the words/things with which we serve Hashem.

This is a lesson we see in Bamidbar 3. Sefer Bamidbar begins with who (the specific counting of Bnei Yisrael) and how (the detailed directions on the organization of their encampment) Bnei Yisrael got through the Midbar - that is until perek gimmel (chapter 3), which begins:

"This is the line of Aaron and Moshe at the time that the Lord spoke with Moshe on Mount Sinai. These were the names of Aaron’s sons: Nadav, the firstborn, and Avihu, Elazar and Ithamar; those were the names of Aaron’s sons, the anointed priests who were ordained for priesthood. But Nadav and Avihu died by the will of the Lord, when they offered alien fire before the Lord in the wilderness of Sinai; and they left no sons. So it was Elazar and Ithamar who served as priests in the lifetime of their father Aaron" (3:1-4).

A quick summary of the Levites' responsibilities follows, and then "The Lord spoke to Moshe, saying:I hereby take the Levites from among the Israelites in place of all the firstborn, the first issue of the womb among the Israelites: the Levites shall be Mine. For every firstborn is Mine: at the time that I smote every firstborn in the land of Egypt, I consecrated every firstborn in Israel, man and beast, to Myself, to be Mine, the Lord’s" (3:11-13).

Think about what the Torah has just pointed out! It was intended that Aaron and all four of his sons would be Kohanim, but Nadav and Avihu died. The firstborn were intended to be the ones to serve the Kohanim. Hashem even announced that He had sanctified them for this purpose, but they proved themselves unfit and the plan was "adjusted" for the tribe of Levi to assume that role. Slight shifts in the plan but all part of the ultimate journey through the wilderness.

Life often send us on unexpected paths, some times heartbreaking detours that drastically shift a structure of their life foundation. The path ahead seems less clear and perhaps there is a desire to throw one's hands heavenward and ask Hashem why. We who are on our journeys through the wilderness do not get to have the answers - and that is so very hard - but here in Bamidbar 3, Hashem does provide a guided response. The wilderness holds the unpredictable, but the journey must go on and so one must adjust. One must reframe their world and live it differently than expected, but one must always continue to move forward.