Dear TBZ Community,
This week we read two parshiot, Torah portions – Chukat and Balak – as we continue to recount the journey of the Isralites in the desert, making their way towards the Promised Land.
I want to focus on two different parts of these Torah portions, which might seem unrelated at first glance. However they speak to a quality that we can all aspire to: holding both personal and private experiences, and linking it to our collective responsibility.
In Parshat Chukat we read about the deaths of Miriam and Aaron. We also read about the striking of the rock, the “sin” that cost Moshe his entry into the Promised Land.
First, there is a very brief description of the death of Miriam, the prophetess who was the older sister of Moshe and Aaron. This is followed by the people’s need for water and Moshe’s response. These two events are in fact connected: the Rabbis notice that stories with Miriam are always associated with water. The proximity of the two stories – Miriam’s death and the need for water – have led the rabbis to say that it was Miriam’s well that accompanied the people of Israel through their travels in the desert. And upon her death the well disappeared, leaving the people parched and frightened.
Without water, the people complain about thirst. Moshe is instructed by God to speak to a rock, which God says will then produce water. Seemingly frustrated and perhaps saddened by his sister’s death, Moshe strikes the rock instead of speaking to it. Water does flow, but God is angry at Moshe for his lack of trust, and tells Moshe that he will not be allowed to lead the people on the final steps of the journey into the Promised Land.
Our tradition seems to have a profound discomfort with the idea that Moshe, the greatest leader, teacher, and prophet of all time, was not allowed to enter the Promised Land after forty years of leading the people through the desert. Did the human agent of Exodus not merit at least that? Were his moments of weakness not deserving of some compassion and understanding? It seems unfair!
A common understanding, as expressed by Rashi, is that Moshe was punished because he hit the rock rather than spoke to it, as God had instructed him to do. Others, such as Maimonides, maintain that Moshe was punished because of how he spoke to the people. He rebuked them with harsh language, when all they sought was fresh water – a basic human need. He was insensitive to the needs of the people, an inexcusable trait in a great leader.
But when reminded of the context, we can perhaps understand why Moshe behaved the way he did. Miriam, a prophet herself, contributed greatly to the leadership of the people. Miriam was Moshe’s caregiver from the moment he was born. Miriam was the one that looked over Moshe when he was a baby in a basket floating down the Nile River. She is the one that made sure Moshe could be brought to his mother to nurse.
Miriam dies and the people of Israel despair in the wilderness. Moshe also despairs in the wilderness. Moshe loses his temper, but what he really lost was his sister. For the Israelites the water was gone, because Miriam is gone; for Moshe, his compassion and patience is gone as well, lost to sadness and the longing for his sister. We can completely sympathize with Moshe’s moment of weakness in his grief and frustration. We can understand his fragility.
Perhaps we can see this moment of sadness, exhaustion, and ending as the moment when God understands that it is Moshe’s time to move on. Denying him entrance to the Promised Land is not punishment, but rather recognition of the end of an era, the end of a generation, and the passing of leadership. The proclamation about the death of Moshe, the death of Miriam, and, later in the parasha, the death of Aaron all signify a shift, a necessary change for the journey to go on.
But perhaps the most powerful part of the story is what happens only one chapter later. In chapter 21, verse 5, the people of Israel complain again – and God sends serpents to punish them. The people go to Moshe, repentant over their actions and complaints, and they ask Moshe to pray for them. And Moshe does. Even after Moshe’s grief, even after his exhaustion, even after God has told him that he will not be with the people when they fulfill the dream he has been struggling for, he does not give up. He is there for his people. He continues the work.
Moshe might have hit the rock in desperation, in grief, and in anger, but he is a model of perseverance – of not letting anger, grief, and desperation overtake him. He doesn’t abandon the people or the journey ahead, even when he will not see the final promise.
In Parshat Balak we read the famous words of blessing whose origins are a curse. Balak, the Moabite king, feels threatened by the power of his neighboring Israelite tribes and hires Bilaam, a prophet, to put a curse on the Israelites. After much resistance – including the Torah’s only instance of a talking donkey – Bilaam finally reaches a hill overlooking the Israelite camp where instead of cursing he declares words of blessing. Most notably in Numbers 24:5:
מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל
Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov, mishk’notecha Yisrael,
How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel
Bilaam, ready to curse, instead blesses the people of Israel as he sees them camping in the desert. He even moves three times as Balak takes him around to see the people of Israel from a different perspective, but what comes from Bilaam’s mouth (or to be more precise, what God puts in Bilaam’s mouth) are words of blessing rather than words of curse.
The most well known words of the blessing are “mah tovu.” The rabbis explained that when Bilaam raised his eyes and he saw the people of Israel dwelling, he saw that the entrances of their tents were not aligned one opposite another. It is important to note here an explanation about the words mishkenotecha which is the same root as mishkan, which means sanctuary or tabernacle, or the word shekinah, the indwelling presence of God. What Bilaam said was, “These people are worthy that the shekinah, the Divine Presence, should rest upon them” (Baba Batra 60a). What Bilaam notices is that the encampment’s layout is configured to preserve the privacy of its residents, despite the close quarters they live in.
It is also interesting to learn about the context for why the Talmud’s rabbis focused on how the camp was organized. The mishnah prior to this teachings says:
In a courtyard, which a person shares with others, one should not open a door facing another person’s door nor a window facing another person’s window. If the window is small it should not be enlarged, and one window should not be turned into two.
On the side of the street, however, one may make a door facing another person’s door and a window facing another person’s window and if it is small one may enlarge it or one may make two of one (Talmud Bavli Baba Batra 60a).
I lived in a courtyard house for four years, in the Nachlaot neighborhood of Jerusalem. One of those houses that once upon a time was one home for a whole family, with a common yard in the middle, and a few different entrances to the rooms from the yard. It was divided into four apartments, each with its own very small kitchen and bathroom. When moving to this new home I knew I would be challenged by the sense of privacy and I will need to find a balance between my shared life with my neighbors and my private life. When could I call from my window to see if they wanted to hang out, and when should I wait for them to come to me? When should I be worried about not seeing them coming home for a few days? And when should I understand that they have their own lives and perhaps they went away and did not tell me? When should I tell them you are not welcome to come inside, I want to be alone, and when should I have my door open?
Perhaps the mishnah, by differentiating between a courtyard and a street – in the courtyard we do not place a door or a window in front of each other; in the side street we do – is giving us the message of living a life where we balance privacy and responsibility. Each one living their own lives, but also knowing that in some cases our doors should face one another.
This is not an easy balance. Perhaps what Bilaam saw in the Israelite camp was the capacity to balance between our private life and our concern for others. At times it is important that we close our windows and doors, without looking into our neighbors’ lives, letting people live their lives in the way they want. But at the same time our doors and windows should be open, reminding us of our responsibility for each other.
The rabbis of the Talmud say: “the portals of their tents were not aligned one opposite another.” In Hebrew, the word for aligned is mechuvanim, which also means “directed” or “intended,” as in the word kivun, “direction [of a compass]” and kavanah, “intention.” Rabbi Brian Besser reads this metaphorically and understands this description – ein mechuvanim, “not aligned” – connotes a group of people with different directions in life, different intentions.
Bilaam perceives that a diverse collection of separate individuals with different demands and desires can still come together for the common good and be a community. They combine the values of privacy and responsibility, creating a community that appreciates differences and understands the importance of privacy. The values are pluralistic in accepting those differences and at the same time knowing how to be a community by opening doors to each other.
The balance between the private and the public, between the personal experience and the collective one, are part of what makes this camp worthy of blessing. The people have their own lives, their own journeys, their own pains and joys, and at the same time they are linked by being in community with open doors to see each other, to be there for each other. Like Moshe, who balances his personal experience of grief and learning of his fate outside the Promised Land, with his collective responsibility of leadership. He doesn’t close the door on his community. From Moshe, the greatest leader, teacher, and prophet of all time, we can embrace our responsibility to each other, to the collective, and how that exists side-by-side with our private lives. Again, not an easy balance to hold but one to aspire to.
Like the people of Israel, our doors to the street are always open, even when we need to close windows. Like Moshe, our perseverance and not leaving people on their own, even in the midst of sadness and grief, continues.
May we all merit the capacity to hold this balance and keep our doors open and be, just a bit, like Moshe, not letting go of our responsibilities even when personally is not easy.
May this Shabbat bring renewal and blessings to all of you and your loved ones.
May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity.
May all those who are ill find healing. And may we have a joyful, sweet, and peaceful Shabbat.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia
P.S: As Summer has begun, I am going to take a break from writing weekly messages for Shabbat N’kabla. My shabbat N’kabla Parasha messages will resume on August 31, Parshat Ki Tavo. May you have a wonderful summer.