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At the very beginning of this week’s parsha, Moses organizes a mission to scout out the land of Canaan. As the Israelites stand on the verge of dispossessing the Canaanite nations, God commands Moses to reconnoiter the territory through the agency of 12 men representing each of the tribes.
They are given specific instructions: “Go up there in to the Negev and into the hill country, and see what kind of country it is. Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns they live in open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not? And take pains to bring back some of the fruit of the land” (Num. 13:18–20). Unfortunately, we know well that the mission goes awry as the majority of the scouts despair of the chance of conquest. And a grammatical inconsistency seems to give us a clue as to the unfortunate unfolding of events. Numbers 13:22 states, referring to the scouts, that they “went up to the Negev,” using the plural of the verb (vaya’alu); however, it continues by stating, “he came to Hebron,” employing the singular (vayavo). How may we understand this discrepancy, and what does it teach us? Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains... The singular vayavo is striking. According to Sotah 34b, it refers to Caleb, who journeyed there to pray on the grave of the forefathers for strength to stand up against the intentions of his colleagues. Confirmation can be found in Deuteronomy 1:36, where it says, “and to him will I give the land upon which he has walked,” and in fact Caleb did get Hebron . . . But in any case, there is nothing at all in the context of our verse to make Caleb or any other individual, the subject of vayavo . . . We would therefore actually believe that vayavo refers to the whole company. It is put in the singular to indicate that up to Hebron they came “as one man” in complete unison in feelings and unanimity of mind and purpose. They went up from the south and came in unison to Hebron. But there they saw the descendants of giants . . . and this brought about the wavering alteration in their courage and resolutions. Until Hebron the predominating influence of Caleb kept them all in the same mood of courage, determination and faith. In Hebron, Caleb felt the beginning of the difference between himself and the others. (Commentary on Numbers, 201–202) Hirsch here moves beyond the literal analysis and instead he sees the use of the singular as reflecting the emotional state of the scouts. They set out to Hebron to accomplish their mission with a unified sense of purpose. Regrettably, their unity degenerates into chaos as their spirits are dampened by what they uncover. Caleb however proves to be of another mindset—and he succeeds in separating himself from communal despair. Hirsch poetically resolves the textual conflict by arguing that the transition from plural to singular, and back to plural represents an important moment. While they arrive in Hebron of one heart, they leave disheartened, heading in many directions. Only Caleb, along with Joshua, can envision a different, more hopeful scenario. May we, like Caleb, strive to be unified with our community—but when the challenge arises, may each of us find the gumption within us to be the lone dissenting and rational voice. It is often such a heroic voice that redeems an entire nation.
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It is not always easy to see the connection between one week’s parsha and the last, and we know that the Torah is not necessarily chronological, so it may even be a mistake to look for those connections. But this week’s parsha--B’ha’alotkha—moves almost seamlessly from last week’s Naso.
Remember that last Shabbat we read about the completion of the building of the Mishkan. Well, in this week’s parsha, we turn on the lights. We can only imagine what a powerful experience that must have been. Of course that light appears through the menorah, perhaps the most widely-known symbol of Judaism. God gives Moses exact instructions for how to build the menorah—hammered from gold, “according to the pattern that the Lord had shown Moses.” Though the lamps are meant to be detachable, the menorah is supposed to be fashioned from one solid piece of gold. And high priest Aaron is the one who has the honor of making it, using God’s instructions delivered to him by his brother Moshe. One midrash tells is that the angel Gabriel actually put on a worker’s apron and showed Moshe how to make the menorah—there’s evidence for this in the parsha, where God says, “Now THIS is how. . . .” Some commentators see that word THIS (zeh) as almost like God pointing to something that is visible, like blueprints, there for Moses to see. Perhaps. But, in addition, we are told that the flames should all point to the center of the menorah. Why? One argument is that the reason the flames point inward is so that no one will ever think that God NEEDS the light to shine his way—God has all the light He needs, so the light of the menorah does not point in his direction. But another interpretation—and I like this one better—tells us that pointing toward the center lets us know that we are united as a people, that however individual we are, both as individual people and as members of varied Jewish denominations and affiliations, we are all Jews, and we all point in the same direction. Together, the menorah represents the people of Israel, God’s light unto the nations. Perhaps this is part of what we mean by our “chosenness,” which is not, as we all know, what anti-Semites claim, but rather an increased responsibility and obligation to be a people of the covenant, a people who should serve as role models and, in the words of Rabbi Harold Kushner Z”L, to “teach by both personal and collective example.” A particularly arcane section of this week’s portion of Naso is a tradition known as SOTA. Sota concerns an allegation, and it is sort of a trial. But it is a trial in a very strange sense—there is no evidence offered, there is no witness involved, there is not even a defending attorney. All we have is an angry husband who suspects his wife of infidelity. The Parsha gives us a lengthy description of the process—first, the priest “brings her before the Lord.” She has an opportunity then to confess. But of course it’s possible that she has nothing to confess. If she does not confess at that point, then she must drink “the bitter waters”--MAYYIM HAMAORARIM—that have been collected by adding the dust and ashes from the floor of the Temple to water from the holy laver.
It is noteworthy that the passage in the Torah where this process is described uses the word BITTER—MARIM—several times, making it clear that this is a highly unpleasant experience for the woman, regardless of her guilt or innocence. If she is innocent, according to this practice, nothing will happen. If she is guilty, we are told that “her belly will distend and her thighs to sag.” The commentary in our Etz Hayyim notes that scholars do not agree on exactly what this passage might mean, but many believe that this is a subtle reference to a miscarriage. There are many approaches we might take in thinking about this bizarre practice. It’s even possible that, despite the lengthy description we read, it was never actually put into practice. Think about this country, for example—we have many laws on the books that are never enforced and never actually implemented. On the other hand, if this was a practice—and it’s hard to know why the Torah would spend so much time on this if its wasn’t—then we can be thankful that, according to Yochanan Ben Zachai, the ritual was abandoned in the first century of the common era. According to Ben Zachai, the husband had to be pure if he were bringing charges against his wife; there were no men who met that standard, and so the practice faded away! But what can we take from this ancient TORAT HAKINAOT—the ritual of jealousy? We could focus on so many aspects of this process, but I want to explore this idea of jealousy. In chapter five, the Torah reads: THIS IS THE RITUAL IN CASES OF JEALOUSY, WHEN A WOMAN GOES ASTRAY WHILE MARRIED TO HER HUSBAND AND DEFILES HERSELF, OR WHEN A FIT OF JEALOUSY COMES OVER A MAN AND HE IS WROUGHT UP OVER HIS WIFE: THE WOMAN SHALL BE MADE TO STAND BEFORE THE LORD AND THE PRIEST SHALL CARRY OUT THIS RITUAL WITH HER. Notice that this passage gives us TWO OPTIONS—first, that the woman has gone astray, and SECOND that the man is jealous and is simply “wrought up over his wife.” Here the passage makes clear that it’s possible that the husband is simply imagining her infidelity—a “fit of jealousy” has come over him. We know that humans are not the only beings in the world to experience jealousy. God Himself is a jealous God, and we are told that over and over throughout the Torah. We should note that the word for the husband’s jealousy that is part of the narrative of today’s parsha - Kin’a - is the very same word that is used to describe God’s jealousy. I suppose it might be comforting to think that God has similar feelings to our own. On the other hand, don’t we want God to be better than we are? That reminds me of a story... Mrs. Cohen was almost in tears when she confessed to her best friend: “Oh, Margie, I just learned that my husband is having an affair with his secretary.” Her friend replied, “That can’t be true. You’re just saying that to make me jealous!!” So we know that jealousy is probably a universal emotion. I’m sure that we’ve seen children who want a toy JUST BECAUSE another child is playing with it. Or even the dog who grabs the chew toy out of another dog’s mouth. It always looks better when someone else has it, doesn’t it? So perhaps we’re beginning to understand SOTA, just a bit. What we DON’T know is whether, in a case of SOTA, the husband really suspects his wife is guilty of infidelity, or just wants her out of the picture. We don’t know whether he’s jealous because he loves her or because some other man may have stolen his property. Those questions are left unanswered in the lengthy description we see in Naso. But if God can be jealous at times, can jealousy ever be a good thing? The Talmud tells us that jealousy of a TALMID CHACHAM is acceptable because it motivates us to study Torah in order to be at the same level as the scholar. So perhaps there are times when being jealous drives us to accomplish worthy goals that we would not otherwise have sought. Or, in the words of Steven Wright, “I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.” Jealousy is usually irrational. We can build up a whole world view where no contradictory evidence will make a difference. For example... I know of a case where a very jealous woman assumed her husband was having an affair. So she zealously went through his clothes whenever he came home at night; one night, searching for clues and finding no hairs on his jacket, she said, “Oh, so now you’re having an affair with a BALD woman?!” Many people confuse ENVY and JEALOUSY. And there is a very fine line between the two. Both envy and jealousy make you feel inadequate. But, in the case of envy, you want something that someone else has. This is the tenth commandment—not to covet; here what we are being commanded to avoid is envy. In the case of jealousy, on the other hand, what you feel is that someone is trying to take something that is yours. Jealousy--Kin’A—is the fear of losing what one has, or what one loves, or what one prizes. So Esav is jealous that Jacob has taken his birthright. Leah is jealous that Rachel has taken the husband who, given that she is the elder daughter, should be hers. Cain is jealous of God’s love for Abel and for his sacrifice. But we can also see envy as well as jealousy in these stories. Do Joseph’s brothers envy him for his marvelous coat, his good looks, and his confidence? Or are they jealous of their father’s love for this particular son? Perhaps all apply . . . Milder versions of jealousy are part of what it means to be human. It’s even possible that jealousy lets us know that we love someone, that we don’t want to lose that person to another. But, in most cases, jealousy—as we see here in the case of SOTA—is ugly and irrational. Let us hope and pray that when we feel jealousy—and we know that we will—that we can turn that jealousy into something productive. That we can rise above the childish need for your toy and that we can recognize that God gives us what we need, and to be envious or jealous is to question that faith. So let us rise above those inclinations to love each other AND ourselves. This week's parsha--Bamidbar—begins with instructions to raise up every head, NASO ET ROSH.
We are told that Aaron and Moses went to every tent in order to ensure that every Jew would be counted. Now we know that Jews tend to be pretty wary of censuses. Some of us even count a minyan by saying “not one, not two,” and so forth. If we think back over our long history, we may remember that King Solomon instituted a census in order to assess a tax involving forced labor. The result was a terrible plague that was visited on the people. More recently, we think back to the horrors of the Shoah—where people were literally numbered on their flesh, where the census was a way to round people up in order to slaughter them. But Bamidbar gives us an example of a census that LIFTS US UP. And it tells us that every Jew counts. Every Jew can make a difference. It was Maimonides who said that every person should imagine that the world is evenly balanced between good and evil. With that in mind, then, every one of us can tilt the balance. Whether it be toward good or toward evil. We can ask the following question: “Who is the most important Jew?” You might think Moshe or Avraham or even Albert Einstein. But the answer is much simpler? It is YOU. It is YOU because each of us has the power to tilt the world toward goodness. We embrace the concept of tikkun olam, repairing the world. Many great enterprises that benefit the world have begun with ONE PERSON, one person who had a dream. Israelis use the phrase, “Mishoogah la davar”—crazy for an idea, and maybe it's a requirement to make make a difference in this world. You must see a need and dream of ways to fill that need. Israel itself is the product of such a dream. Theodor Herzl dreamed of a Jewish state. He was without a doubt “meshoogah la davar.” He fought his whole life—and used up all of his financial assets and probably shortened his life in that fight—to defend the idea of an independent Jewish state. Today Herzel’s picture sits above the table at Independence Hall in Tel Aviv, where in 1948 the founders of Israel created that nation. Herzl saw Israel as a way to allow for what he called a “new blossoming of the Jewish spirit.” Even when he was offered land in Uganda, he rejected it; he knew even then that Israel was the Jewish homeland. And I think that any of us who have ever visited that homeland can attest that that small nation has exceed his wildest dreams. May we all be meshoogah la davar. As long as we have dreams, we are alive. As long as we have dreams, we can tilt the balance toward good. As long as we have dreams, we embody what is noblest and most central to our Jewish faith. And, in the unforgettable words of Herzl himself, “If you will it, it is no dream.” |
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