Parshas Naso – An Offering of Jealousy and Remembrance.

The parsha of the Sotah is, for many people, an uncomfortable one to read. If you are a woman of the current age, it feels unbalanced, unfair, and almost cruel. In the world at large, a man’s philandering wi considered just as grievous as a woman’s, and yet, in Torah, there is no concept of a cheating husband because, one could argue, the Torah permits a man to have four wives. There are many explanations for why there is this distinction, not the least of which is the basic, practical need to be assured of the paternity of children. Part of it, however, also has to due with the assumed nature of men and women, even as old fashioned and anti-modern thought as these Torah concepts may be (although these natures are still readily apparent, no matter what the modern culture wishes to assert). 

In Parshas Naso, the pasukim describe the process of accusing a Sotah. Among the instructions, it is described that “that party shall bring his wife to the priest. And he shall bring as an offering for her 1/10th ephah of barley flour. No oil shall be poured upon it and no frankincense shall be laid on it, for it is a meal offering of jealousy, a meal offering of remembrance a reminder of sin” (Bamidbar 5:15).

The different perspectives throughout history of marital dynamics, of the nature of husbands and wives and their relationship, has always colored the interpretations of the pasukim relating to the Sotah. Thus the Or Hachaim who lived in the 16th/17th century relates this pasuk to Adam and Chava and the “original sin,” stating: 

“When the Sotah drinks this mixture of water, earth and the residue of the holy name of Hashem that dissolved in that water, the name of the meal-offering as ‘reminder of sin’ is most appropriate if she has indeed been guilt of marital infidelity…Whoever is familiar with the sin of Eve who had been contaminated by sexual intercourse with the original serpent, and who had thus been disloyal to her husband, will realise that the sin the Sotah is guilty of is indeed the original sin committed by man, i.e. woman” (translation via Sefaria).

Relating Sotah only to the idea of a cheating wife is, in some ways, simplistic. A pasuk such as 5:15 tells us that there is so much more to it. What does the Torah mean that it is “a meal offering of jealousy, a meal offering of remembrance” when it is one meal offering? If it is a “reminder of sin,” meaning the original sin, as the Ohr Hachaim proposes,” why is it connected to jealousy? 

The descriptors of this particular mincha offering are subtle warning signs to both the husband and the wife. To the wife it is a warning that the husband will be vindicated if she is untrue, that he can and will bring her forward to the high priest and have his wrongs made right. To the husband, however, it is a warning that jealousy, too, is an avaira, that the course he is embarking on will have deep ramifications, even if his wife is proven innocent. 

Rabbi Shimshon Refael Hirsh points out that “the husband can prefer to have the marriage concluded, or the wife, without admitting any guilt, can prefer divorce to continuing the marriage after her innocence has been proved, or simply does not wish to undergo the test. Neither the husband not the wife can be forced to have the test made.”

The wife, if she has been unfaithful, need not die. He can let her go; they can just end the marriage. By pursing the process of Sotah he is, most likely, seeking some level of revenge or to assert his dominance. (Unless he knows her innocence and feels a need to make a very public assertion of it.) If the woman is willing to undergo the Sotah waters after her husband accuses her, it seems this would be an assertion of innocence, for she would simply die. If she refuses to partake in the Sotah ceremony, it seems this would be reason enough to simply end the marriage.

The great and painful sin of the situation of the Sotah is, in truth, the real original sin – but not the one this foreign phrase refers to. The sin of the Sotah is the underlying inability of the couple to build a relationship, the foster two halves into a whole, to overcome jealousy. Hashem is not asking the impossible of the husband. Hashem understands jealousy, and we, the Jewish people who have gone astray, remain here – alive and thriving. 

Just some food for thought. Hope you have a beautiful Shabbas.

Parshas Matos-Masai – Small Borders

Dedicated to a refuah shelaima for Sofiya Sara bas Merah and for a continued refuah for Leah Nechama bas Shulamit.

Listen to the news in many Western countries and you might hear contradictory reports about there being too many people on the planet or direly low rate of population growth in a particular country. Obviously, these reports are focused on very different concerns; nevertheless, they highlight our natural interest in how the world fulfills the most basic human commandment, the first commandment of the Torah, which is to be fruitful and multiply.

It is well known that peru urevu is a mitzvah that Jewish law takes seriously, and so one must question the fact that the Jewish people are now, and have always been, a tiny sliver of the population. Of course we can point to the horrors of modern history as to why our population is small today, but the fact of the matter is that we have always been an insignificant percentage – numerically speaking.  The constant devastations that have limited our numbers are accounted for in many of the upcoming parshios in Sefer Devarim that make clear the consequences of our betrayal of the covenant, but perhaps we can find in this week’s parsha a different perspective – a hope filled perspective - on our size. Perhaps, looking at the description of the borders of the land, we might see that this was the plan all of long.

 

The borders of the Promised Land, as delineated in Perek 34, do not create an enormous territory. In the next Perek, Hashem specifies that the Leviim were to have 48 small cities, six of which were to be cities of refuge. The size of our land appears to be not much different than that of the State of Israel today, which we know is smaller that most states in the United States. There have always been kingdoms of far greater land mass. If Hashem had intended the Jewish people to grow strong in the way that other nations have grown strong – through physical presence and force of population - would He not have sanctified a far greater territory as that destined for Bnei Yisrael.

 

One could argue that more land was not needed for the nation that Hashem brought forth from slavery in Egypt, but the Promised Land (even with more territory as delineated elsewhere) was never large. It wasn’t large because it was something far greater. This small swath of land nestled against the Mediterranean is the land Hashem promised Avraham, it is the land walked and known by our forefathers. It was never “big,” but it was always holy.

 

Other than nodding our heads at the fact that we remain a small nation, what can we gain from considering the size of the Promised Land, the limitations this infers for the future population? Bnei Yisrael are pledged with being an “Am Kadosh” (a holy nation), a “mamleches kohanim” (a nation of priests), and so forth. The kohanim among the Jewish people were a small sliver of the population, descendants of one man out of thousands. And the kohanim were given the honor of replacing the firstborn sons of the nation, which is, again, a small percentage of a population. To be holy means to be separate, or to separate one’s selves, and to form a people that can truly live up to that title, implies that there will be limits. Bnei Yisrael is not destined to conquer the world with an army or to overpower the world with might. Bnei Yisrael is destined to present to the world the very real possibility of living a life dedicated to serving Hashem.

 

There is a frequently discussed Midrash that explains that when the Children of Israel left Egypt, only a fifth of the people followed Moshe. The other 80% perished in the plague of Darkness. In many ways, this Midrash is a key to understanding the steady disproportion of the Jewish people, and also, perhaps, modern day assimilation into Western society. Choosing to enter the wilderness in order to serve Hashem is not easy, even for those who are born into a fully observant lifestyle. Being an Am Kadosh requires dedication, and that dedication limits Bnei Yisrael. Those limitations, however, are the key to our destiny. Rather than worry over our size, our job is worry about being able to fill the role that merits the fullness of the Promised Land.

 

The Jewish people have never needed a vast population to influence the world; we have never needed to swarm over the earth and force people to join us. The power of the Jewish people, the secret of our survival for so many millenia, has been our choice to stay dedicated to our role. The Land of Israel was then and will be the perfect size for us in the coming days when the state of the world will recognize our sanctified role.

 

May we see the days of redemption and the coming of Moshiach swiftly in our time.

 

Parshas Balak - Maintaining Bechira

Dedicated to a refuah shelaima for Leya Nechama bas Shulamit

Parshas Balak is a rather strange portion of the Torah. Not only does the Torah present a non-Israelite who appears to have a level of intimacy with Hashem that, until now, has seemed unique to Bnei Yisrael – indeed to Moshe in particular - but there is also a talking donkey and an angel with a sword. These attributes, however, are not what make Parshas Balak so confounding. The most perplexing aspects of Parshas Balak are the seemingly contradictory messages that, when examined closely, illustrate the ever-present tension of bechira (free-will) and the Divine hand in the world, and how important that tension is to the Divine Plan for life.

For those unfamiliar with the narrative, Balaam, a non-Israelite “prophet” whose spiritual connection matched that of Moshe, was asked by King Balak of Moav to curse the Israelites. He tells the emissaries of Moav that he can do nothing without Hashem’s approval, and, when he seeks that approval, he is told no rather firmly (22:12). Balaam sends the messengers home, but Balak sends more emissaries, offers greater reward. So Balaam once again requests to do this task for Balak, and “God came to Balaam at night and said to him, ‘If these men have come to call for you, arise and go with them, but the word I speak to you-that you shall do’" (Bamidbar 22:20).

No hesitation. No mulling over the words. Balaam wakes in the morning, saddles his she-donkey, and heads to Balak. And this angers God greatly. But, it seems necessary to ask: Didn’t Hashem give Balaam permission to go with these men, and, if so, how can Hashem be angry at him?

 Obviously, Balaam missed the tone of the permission, but one doesn’t want to think of Hashem being “Passive-Aggressive.” Indeed, that is not the point at all. Hashem gave him permission to go, but Hashem also provided Him with the framework to make the right choice, to choose to follow the path already set out for him at the very outset. It was, one might presume, obvious to Hashem that Balaam had already determined the course of his actions, and the only way to stop him would have been to alter his will.

 Having free will means that one has the ability to ignore the very obvious proper path; one has the freedom to make bad choices (even over and over and over).  Of course, having the freedom to choose the divergent path does not mean that there are no consequences to those choices. There are, indeed, consequences. The Children of Israel chose to listen to the report of the scouts and believe ill of the Promised Land; Hashem let them react, let them be fearful and angry…but their reaction meant that they could not enter the land immediately, that they were not ready.

 On his journey to meet with King Balak, Balaam’s she-ass sees an angel with a sword and balks.  Balaam gets angry with the ass and eventually strikes it; at which point both the she-ass and the angel speak to him. In this moment, Balaam is facing a higher level of communication than almost anyone in the Torah does. He is being prevented with a direct message of displeasure from Hashem, and yet he still has the choice to ignore it.

 Significantly, as noted by Rashi citing the Midrash Tanchuma, the fact that Balaam did not see the angel in the first place was a message to him of his decreasing ability to connect to the spiritual world. Balaam, however, does not acknowledge this shift in himself. He sees himself still as the powerful-“prophet.” He recognizes that he should have seen the angel, not that he was unable to see the angel, and therefore responds: “I have sinned, for I did not know that you were standing on the road before me. Now, if it displeases you, I will return” (22:34). The conclusion of this pasuk is also loaded with significance. Balaam, according to the commentators, is implying that the angel would be displeased, that the angel would want him to turn back, and, in so doing, is asking the angel if he is contradicting the permission Balaam feels he has already received from Hashem.

 (One can almost feel the angel shaking its head in despair at the man’s stubbornness.)

 When the angel tells Balaam to go with the men, it is, as Rashi notes quoting Maseches Makkos 10b: “On that road that a man is resolved to go, he is allowed to go.”

 Hashem does not want to directly intervene in a person’s free will. This is why we don’t see open, grandiose miracles on a regular basis. Witnessing or being part of direct Divine intervention reduces one’s ability to function with bechira, and perhaps this is why Hashem became angry when Balaam proceeded on the path after the emissaries returned. He didn’t want to have to interfere.

 Hashem directly removing or limiting a person’s bechira happens even less frequently than open miracles. He warned Balaam not to set out on this path, and still Balaam made his own choices.

 By the time Balaam reached Balak, he had been well-warned that his words would not be his own, should he choose to curse the Israelites. But Balaam also believed that he had twice evaded following Hashem’s will, and so, perhaps, when he told Balak that “I can utter only the word that God puts into my mouth” (22:37), he believed that this too he would be able to talk his way out of.

 And thus we come to the actual act of blessing the Israelites when he intended to curse them. Was this not a direct dissolution of Balaam’s bechira? Hashem literally put words in his mouth! But Balaam had been warned; he had been told what would happen and so it was not a limitation of his bechira – it was a consequence of his choice of action.

 Balaam was an evil, stubborn, and arrogant man, but Balaam’s actions provide us with an important reminder about the world Hashem created. Every person has free will. Every person has the power to make choices in their lives. Hashem can provide startlingly direct messages, and we still have the ability to make the wrong choice. It is not just part of being human; it is an essential aspect of fulfilling our roles in olam hazeh.

Parshas Chukas – Past-Present-Future

 It used to be that when people used the term “the good old days,” they were referring to a time of their youth or childhood. In 2022, when we refer to the good old days, many of us are referring to anytime before 2020.

 

The fact of the matter is that here in Parshas Chukas we have confirmation that it is human nature to paint the past in a euphoric light. “Why have you taken us out of Egypt to bring us to this evil place” (Bamidbar 20:5). Right, because Egypt was better than being in the Wilderness in which Hashem has been taking care of everything!

 

It’s true, the Children of Israel were frightened that they were losing leaders, that they needed a new source of water. But the exaggeration of the term hamakom harah, this evil place, tells us a lot about their state of mind. Even if one were to say that they felt this way because they had witnessed their brethren dying, it still does not make sense. Every death was clearly attributable to the punishment determined and declared by Hashem after the incident of the spies. The closest thing to “evil” that occurred to them was having consequences for their own behavior, and yet this was enough for them to think back fondly on Egypt. Perhaps we can understand it like a university student who is suddenly faced with new standards of work and responsibility and thinks back on the idyllic life they had in high school, when in reality they spent high school wishing for something else.

 

Idealizing the past is normal. It’s easy. After all, we have already survived that state of being, and so we know that we can continue to do so. Indeed, often when we look to the past, we see not just how we survived, but how we thrived – no matter what those circumstances actually were…and that longing for the safety and security of the past colors not just the then, but the now as well. Especially when the present gets difficult.

 

“Why have you taken us out of Egypt to bring us to this evil place; it is not a place for seeds, or for fig trees, grapevines, or pomegranate trees, and there is no water to drink” (Ibid).

 

We forget, rather easily, that life is a journey, that our goal in life is to grow and to attain spiritual rewards. For Bnei Yisrael in the wilderness, that ultimate spiritual reward was the land of Israel, and that place in the desert was only a stop on the journey … so of course it did not have seeds or fig trees, grapevines or pomegranate trees. It wasn’t supposed to.

 

The rose-colored glasses with which we view the past are often the direct result of our current day discontent. Every moment of our lives is colored by that which has come before. Human beings are expert complainers, experts at looking around and wondering why the world is not meeting our standards. What we need to become are experts at looking ahead. Today is hard; tomorrow, imertz Hashem, I will be planting grapevines and pomegranate trees.

Parshas Korach - Achieving the Opposite

The last chapter of Parshas Korach describes some of the privileges of being either a Kohain or a Levi. To sum it up quickly, the priests are able to eat many of the sacrificial offerings, including, often, select portions. The priests receive the best of the gifts that the people bring to the Temple, the firstborn of the flocks and herds, and the payment of the redemption of the firstborn. The Levites receive a tithe (1/10th) of the crops of Bnei Yisrael, but from all that they receive they must take a tithe as well and bring it to the priests. These privileges, these rights to eat from the offerings and to receive the tithes, were in compensation for the services they were to perform for Bnei Yisrael as well as for the fact that they would receive no land of their own. 

Receiving the maaser tithe alleviated the need of the Levites to work the land. It made certain that they were provided for. But, if one examines the actual system, one notices that this was nothing in comparison to what was now granted to the Kohanim, who, at many points in Jewish history, actually had a great deal of wealth. This may always have been Hashem’s plan, of course, but if one follows the text of the parsha one might notice the subtle irony that this increase in wealth for the Kohanim, this elevation of the priesthood yet farther from the rest of Bnei Yisrael, was a direct result of Korach’s rebellion. 

Korach, a Levite, approached Moshe and charged him with nepotism. He said to Moshe: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and Hashem is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves [Moshe and Aaron] above Hashem’s congregation?” (Bamidbar 16:3). 

On the surface, Korach’s argument was that the sons of Amram held too much power, too much honor, among themselves. He railed against the fact that Moshe had appointed Aaron as High Priest when Moshe was already like a king, even though they had both been given their roles by Hashem. 

Commentaries frequently discuss the question of Korach’s underlying motivation. Korach was already placed well above most of Bnei Yisrael. The Midrash informs us that not only was he a leader among his family, but he was both exceptionally wealthy and a well-regarded scholar. Furthermore, he was a Levi, and thus had already received the elevated role of serving in the Mishkan. In trying to dissuade him and his followers, Moshe cried “Is it not enough that the God of Israel has distinguished you from the congregation of Israel to draw you near to Him, to perform the service in the Mishkan of the Lord and to stand before the congregation to minister to them?” (16:9).

Korach and his followers lost their argument when Hashem caused the earth to swallow Korach and sent heavenly fire upon the followers. The dramatic end to the rebellion does not quell the unrest. The people complain the next day that Moshe and Aaron were responsible for the violent end of the rebellion. Hashem struck the people with a plague and then sent Aaron into the people to accept their atonement and be saved from the plague. At the same time, a staff for each tribe was put in the Holy of Holies and the next morning Aaron’s staff budded almond blossoms and almond, thus ending any doubt to Aaron’s having been chosen by Hashem.

At the very end of these tumultuous events, the perek has two interesting pasukim: “The children of Israel spoke to Moshe saying, "Behold, we are dying, we will perish, we are all lost! Whoever comes the closest to the Mishkan of the Lord dies! Have we been consigned to die?” (17:27-28). Thus we come to Perek 18, where Hashem commands: “The Lord said to Aaron: You, your sons and your father's house shall bear the iniquity associated with the Sanctuary, and you and your sons with you shall bear the iniquity associated with your kehunah. Also your brothers, the tribe of Levi, your father's tribe, are drawn close to you, and they shall join you and minister to you, and you and your sons with you, before the Tent of Testimony.” (18:1-2). What had been simply roles and jobs for the Kohanim and Leviim were now responsibilities for which they risked bearing iniquity. 

Korach started his rebellion with pluralistic rhetoric, claiming that one family should not hold so much honor, but his true goal was to elevate himself. It was his actions, his inability to recognize and utilize that which he already had, that led to what could be seen as a further division of the Kohanim to the Leviim and both to the rest of the tribes. 

Parshas Korach can, perhaps, be read as a negative narrative that emphasises the statement articulated in Pirkei Avos: “Who is a wealthy man, he who is happy with his lot…” This does not mean that one should be meek and never stand up for oneself. However, when one feels angry or disgruntled or wronged, perhaps the first step – before the reaction – is a self-check. What are my motivations? Am I angry because of my ego or because an injustice has truly occurred? And being honest with oneself, as we all know and as is plainly clear from Korach’s example, is one of the hardest tests a person can face. When we are not honest with ourselves, however, the consequences may be far from what we actually seek. 

Shabbat Shalom

Parshas Naso – So What It’s Not Your Fault?

Have you heard the recent trend in conversations about how children require more grit, about how the younger generations of our age lack a sense of stick-to-itness. The experts point to the increase in attention issues, to online shopping’s near-instant gratification, and to a lack of job loyalty when compared to older generations. One might think that children being raised in a Torah environment, in a society with intricate rules and sometimes lengthy rituals, would not have the same issues, but we do. Just think about the difference in the selection of kosher food thirty years ago and today…as a minor demonstration. There is almost nothing we must defer having or having a near perfect imitation of (Why should there be fish shaped like shrimp?) We have, in many ways, lost the art of accepting limitations.

Although there have been some some-what modern era examples, most of us today have trouble imagining the life of a Nazir, of a person who has dedicated themselves to Hashem and taken a special vow not to cut their hair, not to partake in anything made from a grape plant, and not to come in contact or proximity to a corpse. We understand, perhaps, the drive for dedication, the urge to gain control over one’s spiritual life – indeed, we see people taking such steps today in cutting themselves off from technology that they feel brings them down spiritually. Withholding from using technology, however, is an understandable reaction; withholding from cutting one’s hair or eating stuffed grape leaves is far less concrete.

   

Within the laws of the Nazir described in Parshas Naso, there is a wonderful lesson in having grit. We assume that a person who becomes a Nazir does so at a point of high motivation, whether the source of that motivation is positive or negative. To make such a defined and encompassing vow, a vow that becomes publicly obvious, requires a driving force. Being vigilant to keep the prohibitions during the entire time period requires dedication and mindfulness. But true grit comes into play when:

   

"And if any man die very suddenly beside him, and he defiles his consecrated head, then he shall shave his head in the day of his cleansing, on the seventh day shall he shave it… And he shall consecrate unto God the days of his Naziriteship, and shall bring a he-lamb of the first year for a guilt-offering; but the former days shall be void, because his consecration was defiled” (Bamidbar 7:9 &12).

   

Imagine a Nazir - a week in, three weeks in,to the usual 30 day vow -sitting at the park and the man next to him has a sudden heart-attack and dies on the spot. Without question there is a trauma for anyone just from having watched this tragic event occur. For the Nazir, however, there is a deeper impact. All of the time he has passed as a Nazir until now is null and void, defiled and done. And he starts again.

   

There isn’t an option to opt out. You tried, life got in the way, so you try again. A recent discussion noted that there seems to be an increase in the “not my fault” culture in Western society. It’s the next step of everyone gets an award, and it is an attitude contrary to the values honed by living a Torah lifestyle. Leaning against a light switch as you enter a room and accidentally turning on the light on Shabbas is still a melacha.

   

When we take away personal responsibility, we diminish both our selves and the society in which we live. A Nazir may not be in the proximity of a dead body. This is it. This is the rule. You chose to become a Nazir, and you may not be near a dead body. If a person died next to you, this means that there is a reason, a part of a Divine plan, why you need to be a Nazir longer.

   

Giving up is easy, especially when the thing that interferes with success is “not your fault.” But that doesn’t build you as a human being, that doesn’t make you stronger; it doesn’t give you the internal koach to face the other challenges that life might throw at you.

   

It seems obvious that Bamidbar 7:9-12 is there because of very real and possible situations. Like all pasukim in the Torah, however, it also helps us find ways to live better lives. We hope to never face situations that require deep levels of grit and resilience, but the truth of the matter is that life is full of those challenging moments and the Torah helps us to prepare for them.

   

Wishing you all a good Shabbas.

(My grit story is that this is the second worked on for this parsha. When the first one fell apart, or wouldn’t really come together, at 9 am, I could have sent a message declaring no parsha this week, but I pushed forward and started again.)
  

Parshos Matos-Masai: Using Our Roles

WARNING: THIS DVAR TORAH IS NOT POLITCALLY CORRECT BY 21^ST CENTURY STANDARDS

The Book of Numbers, Sefer Bamidbar, concludes just as Bnei Yisrael are ready to enter the Promised Land. All that remains is Moshe’s final speech, which is Sefer Devarim, the Book of Deuteronomy. In the last parshiot of Bamidbar, Matos-Masai, which are usually read together, we learn some interesting lessons on the importance of societal strength over personal happiness in the realm of family values.

One of the more well-known and “fun” to discuss portions of the parsha is the section pertaining to the tribes of Reuven and Gad. These two tribes see the lovely pasture-land where they are encamped and decided that they wish to remain there. When they ask Moshe for permission to do so, he rebukes them for stating: “Pens for the flock shall we build here for our livestock and cities for our small children” (Bamidbar 32:17). Their values are mixed up, he tells them. They understand then that their responsibility is to build cities for their small children and then pens for their livestock. But this passage does not just help them realize that their families come before their material security. In specifying that the men of Gad and Reuven must first build cities and pens and then leave to go and fight for the Promised Land, Moshe is subtly reinforcing the idea that as comfortable as a man’s home may be, he cannot enjoy the comforts of home until he has ensured its security and protection (which in this case means assisting in the conquest of Eretz Yisrael so that all of the people could build for their families).

To the 21^st century ear, this sounds old fashioned. We do not think of the world as dangerous in the ways it once was. And women can, and do, go out into the world to support and protect themselves and their homes.  Indeed, there is much that is in the parshios of Matos-Masai that would raise an eyebrow of any feminist – and perhaps of most women raised in modern society. In fact, the parshios are bookended by such subjects! Parshas Matos begins with the laws of vows and focuses heavily on the circumstances under which a woman’s vow is upheld or invalidated by her father or husband. And Parshas Masai concludes with the men of Menashe seeming to want to undo Hashem’s ruling that Tzelaphchad’s daughters – who had no brother – could inherit their father’s land. A complaint to which Moshe brings Hashem’s response that the five sisters, and any future women in a similar situation, can only marry men from within their tribe.

Shalom – peace – is a primary goal of halacha. Shalom comes from shelaimus, completion, and the societal dynamics set out by the Torah are meant to guide Bnei Yisrael into creating an ideal, Torah society. This is not about individual wants and needs, it is about the weave of the fabric of a strong, sustainable society.

Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsh wrote the following at the conclusion of the opening section of Matos:

…the general declaration of the gravity and binding force of the spoken word is only mentioned here as introduction and indeed as a contrast. A man has no power whatsoever to annul his own vows, for that he has to go to his national contemporaries, but towards his young daughter and his wife he has restricted authority to intervene… The calling of woman is, to be absorbed into the home of a man as the most important factor of the component parts of that home. But it is not her calling to found a home independently….

 

To this should be added his comments on 30:4 (earlier in the section on a woman’s vows):

The moral greatness of the woman’s calling in life itself demands entering and adopting herself to a position in life created by another. The woman herself does not provide the house. She enters the home provided by the man and rules in it as the happiness-bringing administrator of all that is to be found there, in the sanctity of manners, and morals and feeling directed towards God. Still more than the man has the woman to guard against making restrictions, abnormal arrangements in the course of her life, they could permanently stand in the way of the fulfilment of her calling…

The power of a father or husband to annul a vow is not about the individual. A woman can make a vow, but that vow cannot go against the current or future possibility of creating a peaceful home by creating a conflict with her husband (or future husband). And we know that a woman can make a vow because it is clearly stated that a vow made by a widow or a divorcee is binding. 

Understanding of the distinction between individual need and societal need is also important to understand the ruling at the end of Masai that states: “And every daughter that has an inheritance from the tribes of Bnei Yisrael shall marry one of the tribe of her father” (36:8). To maintain the larger society, property had to stay in its rightful portion, to its proper tribe. One must look at it from that point of view rather than a modern, feminist point of view as the suppression of women’s independence. If that had been the goal, then God’s immediate response through Moshe would not have been: “They may marry anyone they wish. But they shall marry into a clan of their father’s tribe.” The first statement is a woman’s right to make her own decisions, a very important point of Jewish law.

Twenty-first century society places a great deal of emphasis on making oneself happy. The Torah ideal, however, is to use one’s position in the world to find fulfillment and build toward shalom, then one can be happy. Yes, there are limitations, but those limitations – those rules and roles – are meant to help the larger society attain the ultimate goal of a society dedicated to Hashem.

Parshas Pinchas: Pieces of Unity

 Rabbi Shimshon Rafael Hirsch has a beautiful commentary on Bamidbar 26:53, which is the opening of the section of the Torah in which Hashem explains how the Promised Land will be divided. The verse says: “To these shall the Land be divided as an inheritance, according to the number of names,” Rav Hirsch comments that this explains that the land was to be divided by each tribe, each family, and each male over twenty years of age. He then says: “This seems to be a realisation of what we have repeatedly remarked as being the fundamental character of the Jewish nation, that the greatest diversity of tribal family and individual characteristics within an equally great spiritual and moral uniformity belong to the calling of the People of the Torah. Each Tribe, each branch of it, each home had its own special characteristics which it is to keep and develop and which is to have its place on the common universal ground of the Torah…”

Reading this statement brings one to the startling realization that our constant call for Jewish unity is truly attainable - And yet, it remains so sadly elusive. Rav Hirsch here accentuates the beauty of twelve shevatim. Each tribe had their own character traits, their own minhagim, and their own strengths. A man from Dan could not be judgemental about a man from Gad being different from him – wearing different type of clothes or singing different tunes to a song – because it was recognized and understood that they would each be different. Different does not mean better and it does not mean worse. Human nature, however, has an unfortunate habit of thinking that something that is different needs to be something that is comparative. In every corner of the earth, people struggle to realize that it is part of the design of the world that different people have different ways of doing things.

It is actually interesting to take a moment and note that the need to be flexible, to accept and make room for variations on the norm, is a lesson from a separate perek of this week’s parsha. Tzelaphchad’s daughters approach Moshe and request to be the inheritors of their father’s land. Before his sin and punishment, Tzelaphchad was part of those who were to have a portion, and that portion was still the right of their family. In no way does there appear to be an opening for a deviation from the normal laws of inheritance, but the women of the family follow the appropriate channels and make their request. From their actions one could take the lesson that it is ok to step outside the norms as long as one does so in a manner befitting Torah, in a way that still recognizes Hashem and Torah above one’s personal desires.

In the modern age, we have come a long way to accepting differences among major Jewish communities. Ashkenazim and Sephardim have improved significantly on appreciating the cultural differences that make each distinct within the greater whole. The customs that once defined chassidim from misnagdim have blurred as each have taken minhagim from the other. And yet, we still have not come far enough. Even as we speak of respecting others’ differences, within our own communities we make judgements on miniscule variations. This one wears a colored shirt and that one does not… should such small differences really define people? The important part, as Rav Hirsch pointed out, is that all are living within “an equally great spiritual and moral uniformity.”

Jewish unity is a perpetual theme for Divrei Torah because our progress in Ahavas Chinam is two steps forward and one step back. Let us remember that our quest for true Jewish unity begins on the smallest level with our individual interactions. Rabbi Yochanan Kirschblum, in his book Thinking Outside the Box, Bamidbar, references Megila 6a, on which it records that the tribe of Zevulon complained that the other tribes received fields and vineyards and fertile land, while they had received hills and mountains, lakes and rivers. Hashem responded that in his portion would be found the precious chilazon, the snail that provided a unique blue die. Rabbi Kirschblum uses this Midrash to comment that “Each of us is like the land portion of Zevulon. Each of us has hidden valuable talents and abilities that are not readily visible to the undiscerning eye…each one of us has a hidden talent that is representative of all the mitzvos in the Torah.”

In our greater nation and within our individual communities, we have to stop looking at differences as threatening or problematic and start recognizing the values in our variations. We must work to accomplish this and to teach this skill to our children, and only then can we begin to understand the true power of the Jewish nation.

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.