Parshat Baha’alotecha

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Is Bamidbar a Broken Book?

From one perspective we can look at Bamidbar and see a broken book, both physically and spiritually. Physically, Bamidbar is split in two by psukim 10:35-36. These psukim are set off from the rest of the Torah by a flipped letter nun on each side. They describe the way we would carry the Aron HaKodesh in the desert, and Rebbe considers them an entire sefer on their own (see Shabbat 116a). This would make Bamidbar one book, broken into three separate books: the book up until these verses, these two verses, and then the end of the book.

These verses mark a breaking point spiritually and thematically in the Sefer.   At the beginning of Bamidbar we, as a nation, are at Har Sinai, connected completely to Moshe. Our journey from Har Sinai was meant to be a short process, culminating in entering Eretz Yisrael together with Moshe and living in a miraculous state that was almost like Gan Eden. The end of Sefer Bamidbar is another journey entirely. It is a journey of wandering in circles in the desert for forty years while an entire generation dies out. The first path which led so clearly to the spiritual fulfillment of history was shattered. The second path brings us to where we are today.

Bamidbar is therefore the story of two generations: the generation of the desert and the generation that went into the land of Israel. The Midrash Rabbah looks at Bamidbar through this prism, teaching that the five times that light is mentioned in the creation story relate to the five books of the Torah. The fourth use of the word light, which relates to Sefer Bamidbar, is in the sentence “And G-d separated between the light and the darkness.”

Bamidbar is the story of the separation of one generation from the next, one level of spiritual connection to Hashem, and another. Rav Shorr explains that the light here is referring to the way that Hashem guided the generation of the desert under Moshe. Their path was lit with the clarity of the Written Torah and Moshe’s nevuah. In the desert Hashem’s guiding presence was clear and obvious: we ate bread from the heavens, drank water from a traveling well, and were constantly accompanied by a pillar of cloud or a pillar of fire.   The darkness of the pasuk refers to the generation that came into the Land of Israel. Compared to the generation of the desert, this generation saw Hashem in a more hidden way. In Israel, Hashem’s guidance was hidden behind the veil of nature, and the system of Written Torah became the system of Oral Torah.

It is immediately after the verses that describe the traveling Aron HaKodesh that we can begin to see this shift start to take form. The very first pasuk describes the people complaining. This lack of spiritual closeness quickly becomes reflected in reality. Moshe’s leadership is now shared with 70 elders. Eldad and Meidad prophecy that Moshe will not lead Bnei Yisrael into the land. And the people, as per their request, are given birds to eat, instead of bread from the heavens. It is not long after this that we sin with the spies, and are forced to wander in the desert for forty years.

              What started us on this path? Tosafot tells us that we left Har Sinai like children when the bell rings at the end of a school day (Shabbat 116a). Somehow, we were okay with a certain level of separation from Hashem. And as we began to travel, we did not see completely past the physical discomfort to the spiritual good that lay within it. Hashem rushed our journey, in order to bring us into Eretz Yisrael faster. We could only see that this was hard. We could not see that it was good. The result was that our physical reality began to match our spiritual reality. Hashem began to guide us in a different way.

And so, yes, Bamidbar is a broken book, a book that starts out on one path, but is forced into another path altogether. But it is a book, Rebbe tells us, that is broken by a specific message. Just at the moment when our dreams are about to break, Hashem inserts into the Torah a short, but complete sefer. And this sefer is introduced by a flipped nun. Rav Shapiro (Reflections and Introspections on the Torah Volume 4, Bamidbar) explains that the “nun” is flipped in a very specific way. It is flipped in such a way that if we were sitting on one side of the text, and someone was sitting on the other, the “nun” would be facing them. Hashem uses the letters of the Torah to express eternal spiritual truth to us. In general, the letters of the Torah are therefore pointed toward us. But these two “nun”s are pointed toward Hashem. They are his letters.

These two psukim, this short sefer, is expressing something more that what we can see. It is the story not only of how the Aron began to journey, but also how it came to rest. It is an assurance to us, that despite what we may or may not be able to see in this world, there is a purposeful end for every beginning. Just at the point when our clear path is interrupted, at the point when we are forced into a darker and much longer path, there is the assurance that this too will ultimately lead to our destiny. We are on a different path, but we are still moving toward the same place.

Returning to the creation story, we see that while it is true that Hashem separated between the light and the dark, at the end of the day, “It was morning it was night, one day.” Both the darkness and the light are part of one whole. There are times when we look around our world and we see light. There are times when we see darkness, suffering, lies, and anti-Semitism. Every path, no matter how long, no matter how dark, is leading toward our destiny.

Parshat Nasso

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The Wonder of Reacting by Acting

I was tempted to begin this post with a comment on how the events of the last week have been so overwhelming. Then I realized that it’s not just the events of the last week. It’s also the events of two weeks before and all of last year, and even the year before that. I don’t think there are any of us who have not been impacted by current events—and that gives us something in common with the nazir.

This might sound a bit far-fetched, seeing as how the nazir is someone who chooses to take a vow to abstain from wine or grapes, cutting his hair, and coming into contact with a dead person.  However, Rashi points out that the passage describing the nazir appears immediately after the passage of the sotah because the process of the sotah was so impactful that whoever saw it would respond by taking a vow to become a nazir.

This nazir was not related to the sotah. He was not privy to the meaning behind everything that happened to her and could not have known why her life unfolded the way it did, or what the deeper meaning was. But seeing her had an impact on him, and that was part of the plan. The things we experience are meant to impact us, even things not directly related to us. Hashem is aware of all the peripheral effects of everything that happens in this world. And He intends them all.

Rav Schorr tells us, in the name of the Ba’al Shem Tov, that everything we see is intended for us. It relates to us in some way. We therefore have the opportunity to pause and to react purposefully and individually to every event we experience. This was the greatness of the nazir. He allowed himself to be moved spiritually by the events he witnessed.

Specifically, the nazir’s response was one of action. At first glance, that action might seem extreme, even harsh. But Rav Schorr points out that the Torah uses a very specific verb to describe the way the nazir takes his oath (Bamidbar 6:2). The verb comes from the shoresh “Pey-Lamed-Aleph” and is related to the word pelah, a wonder.

We might be familiar with this verb because it closes the asher yatzar bracha. Each time we relieve ourselves, we thank Hashem: Blessed are you, Hashem, Who heals all flesh and acts wondrously. The wonder we refer to in asher yatzar  is the continuous connection that Hashem creates between the body and the soul. Pelah is a verb that expresses the connection of the spiritual to the physical.

We find this verb again in this week’s haftorah, when an angel appears to Shimshon’s parents before he is born to tell them that their son will be a nazir. When they ask him his name, he answers, “Why do you ask? It is peli (literally, a secret, but from the root pelah).” And then the angel proceeds to perform a miracle, causing a fire from above to consume the goat offering brought by Shimshon’s parents.  Of course, that miracle is described as “mafli la’asot” (See Shoftim 13:18-19). The angel brought the fire of heaven to touch the physical korban on earth. 

We think of the nazir as someone who denies his physical desires. But Rav Schorr explains that what is happening is something much deeper. The avodah of the nazir is an echo of what we experienced at kriyat yam suf. We sang to Hashem (Shemot 15:11), “Who is like You, mighty in holiness, too awesome for praise, Who does wonders (pelah)?” The Meshech Chochmah explains that the wonder of kriyat yam suf was that even though Hashem is beyond anything in nature, completely indescribable and incomprehensible, as we stood at the sea we were able to point to the vision of Hashem and say, “This is my G-d.”  It was the tremendous miracle of the spiritual expressed in the physical.

This is what the nazir accomplishes. He separates himself from his physical pleasures by revealing and connecting to the spiritual power that is within him. His ability to overcome his physical desires is drawn from his strong connection to his spiritual will. The wonder of the nazir lies in his ability to fully express his spiritual will in his physical body. This is what makes him holy.

 We do not need to mimic the nazir’s exact actions in order to follow his example. Each of us have a wellspring of spiritual strength within. We can find our own path to holiness.  We can choose to connect to our own spirituality and give it expression in our physical lives in whatever way feels meaningful for us.  The wonder of the nazir is what we see all around us: the great beauty of many different individuals finding meaning in the events of life by expressing their own personal connection to spirituality.

Parshat Bamidbar and Shavout

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Bamidbar: Stand Up And Be Counted

When you’re in the middle of a war-of-sorts, it’s somewhat striking when the parsha of the week begins with a military-style census.  This is not an incidental aspect of the sefer. There are actually two censuses in Bamidbar, one in the beginning and one in parshat Pinchas. Chazal even call Bamidbar “Chumash HaP’kudim” which literally means the Book of Countings (see, for example, Menachot 45b). In the Torah world, names express essence. So what’s the deeper meaning behind this census?

What does pikud mean? Not necessarily to count. Ramban explains pikud as placing attention and guidance over something.  We see the word in Bereisheit 21:1, when Hashem ‘remembered’ (root word, pakad) Sara. The result was that Yitzchak was born. We could also look at Esther 2:3, “And let the king appoint (same root, pakad) commissioners to all the provinces of his kingdom.” When Hashem commands Moshe to lift up Bnei Yisrael through this process and to count us, it is a not simply counting. It is a spiritual accounting.

Each person who was counted was lifted through the process of connection to his unique place. That place was defined in many ways. We were counted not just individually by our names, but also according to our families, our households, and later also according to our shevet, the degel we traveled under in the desert, and as part of the entirety of klal yisrael. Each person possesses not just a unique name, but also a unique place in our family, in all the different circles of our community and in the nation as a whole.

Avraham was told to leave his land, his birthplace, and his father’s home. As an individual, he created our nation. As that nation prepared to re-enter the land Avraham was promised, we were asked to stand up and be counted as an intrinsic part of that nation. We were asked to recognize that each individual has a unique tafkid, mission (also from the root pikud) within the nation as a whole. We were uplifted by recognizing our place as individuals within the community.

The Zohar adds to this idea by equating the number of Jews to the number of letters in the Torah. Every Jew is connected to a letter in the Torah. That letter has a unique kedusha on its own, but also a kedusha that comes from being part of a word, part of a pasuk, part of a parsha, and part of the Torah as a whole. Each letter is also a vessel filled with light. As we’ve mentioned before, the Torah that we have in this world is a vessel that holds the light of the completely spiritual Torah of the higher worlds. In this way, the Torah is similar to our souls. It has both a revealed section, and a very deep inner essence. Each of us can draw vitality from our connection to a letter in the Torah. The point of the census was to connect us back to our source in the Torah, and to appoint us guardians of the kedusha that belongs uniquely to us.

This was accomplished by standing individually before Moshe and Aharon. As Ramban points out (Bamidbar 1:45) standing before Moshe was no small thing. As the greatest of prophets, he was uniquely able to be “the seer” who could identify the individual spiritual mission of each person that stood before him. Moshe stood together with Aharon: the giver of the Torah, together with the Kohen Gadol. Together, they identified for each person their unique aspect of Torah to embody, and their unique avodah to perform in the world.   

There is a tremendous zechut to being willing to stand up and be counted as an individual within the whole. We each have our own mission, and part of that mission is our connection to the community around us.  Each year before Shavout, Hashem sends us a message through Parshat Bamidbar. The Torah was given to Klal Yisrael when we were united, and  the ideal way to be united is to be counted together, as individuals within something greater. 

At the moment, some of us are fighting on the front lines. Some of us are davening from far away. Wherever we are, we are all connected. We all have something to contribute. May Hashem bless us to be able to stay connected. Together may we welcome in times of peace and health.

Shavout: Listening. Just Listening.

So here we are, erev Shavout, and our avodah is to prepare to receive the Torah. Rav Schorr points out that this is easier to do if we understand exactly what it is we are receiving. After all, what we got is not what the angels wanted us to receive.

The Gemara (Shabbat 88b) describes how the angels protested when Hashem gave Moshe the Torah. They were okay with Hashem giving us the mitzvot. But the highest levels of the Torah? The Torah that is black fire written on white fire? How could something so holy, so sublime, be placed into the hands of man? Moshe is afraid to respond to the angels. But Hashem replies, “Grab onto my Throne of Glory, and give them an answer.” This is an intended pun. Rav Shorr points out that the word Hashem uses for answer is teshuva. The answer Moshe is meant to give the angels is teshuva, repentance.

Moshe’s ultimate response is that in a certain sense the angels are right. We can’t earn the Torah based on our ability to be perfect. The source of our spiritual strength is not our perfection. The source of our spiritual strength is our ability to return to our roots. Our souls are connected at their highest level to the kisei hakavod. Just as we are one, from the lowest parts of ourselves to the highest, the Torah is one as well. We are connected to it on all levels.

This is the essence of our celebration of Shavout. We did not exactly get the receiving of the Torah perfectly right the first time around. There were two spiritual ‘crowns’ which we had for a small period of time at Har Sinai. And then we lost them through the sin of the Chet HaEgel. The first crown was na’aseh, the level of action of the angels. We intrinsically knew the right thing to do, and automatically did it.  Clearly, we don’t have this ability anymore. But we do still have the ability to return to our source. Teshuva means there is always another path to where we need to go. The path is longer than it once was. It may take a while, but we can learn before we do. And we can still achieve the state of knowing what Hashem wants us to do in this world.

The second crown at Har Sinai was the crown of ‘nishma.’ This did not mean learning in order to do, because as we mentioned, we had no need for that at Har Sinai. This was a different kind of listening, a kind of listening that even the angels do. It is described in Tehillim 103:20, “to listen to the kol in His dibbur.” It is listening to the kol, the voice of Hashem.

A kol, a voice, is different than the dibbur, the words that are said. Words are what happen when the kol is divided up into different parts and movements. But the kol itself is the inner essence of speech, the source of the speech, that comes from a higher level. There is one level of spirituality which involves being able to hear what Hashem wants us to do and then following that command. There is also another level of spirituality which builds on the first. It is the ability to listen for Hashem’s presence within the words, and within the actions that we do.

Hashem is always communicating. His kol fills our world. We no longer hear this voice automatically. But Hashem is still communicating to us. This year it seems possible that Hashem is communicating a little louder than usual. I think this year, I’d like to try to focus on listening to Him. I’m not sure what I’m going to be learning or doing exactly this Shavout. But what I would like to do is remember that our superpower is teshuva. Spiritually, we can always find another way to get where we need to go. It would be great if we could get to a place where we can hear what Hashem is trying to tell us.

This year, I would like to suggest an experiment.  Choose a moment when you are involved in following the dibbur of Hashem, either through learning or doing a mitzvah. Use that moment to breathe in and experience the pleasure of the breath Hashem gives us. And then listen. Pause for a moment, and connect to Hashem’s Presence in whatever way feels meaningful. Perhaps for a moment we can regain a bit of the crown of ‘nishma.’

May we all be blessed with a meaningful, beautiful, and peaceful Shavout!

Behar Bechukotai

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The Fruit of the Tree is Wheat?

This week, I want to focus on a bracha; specifically the bracha that is spelled out in the first 11 pesukim of Parshat Bechukotai. It’s a beautiful bracha which starts by blessing us with rain that comes at the right time and produces bountiful crops. It includes peace and serenity, protection from wild animals and the ability to vanquish our enemies. It closes with the promise of Hashem dwelling among us. This section naturally comes out each year just before Shavout, and was also decreed by Ezra HaSofer to be read at this time. There is something meaningful here for Shavout.

This bracha describes a world which is so idyllic, so spiritual, that Ramban tells us that it has never been actualized fully. For example, when Hashem promises us, “I will quiet the wild animals from your land (Vayikra 26:6),” Ramban explains that this describes a complete change in nature. When the world was created all animals ate only plants (see Bereisheit 1:30). This was their original nature. It was only after Adam sinned that some animals began to prey on each other and become dangerous. In the future, when we are unified nationally, living together in Eretz Yisrael and following Hashem’s Will, the entire world, and the animals along with it, will return to its original state. Wild animals will no longer be dangerous.

Similarly, the Rama MiPano tells us that when the Torah promises (Vayikra 26:4) that the “tree of the field will give fruit,” the promise is not just that apple trees will produce apples. The promise is that all trees, even trees that today do not produce fruit, will become fruit bearing. The fruit they will bear will not be like the fruit of today. Today, we are only able to eat bread after we have put in a lot of effort to plow, plant, harvest, grind and form the grain into bread. This is a result of Adam’s sin, as Hashem told us, “by the sweat of your brow, you shall eat bread (Bereisheit 3:19).” But there was a time when things were different, and they will be different again. According to Rebbe Yehudah the fruit of the tree of knowledge was wheat (Sanhedrin 70b), because in Gan Eden wheat grew just like the fruit of a tree. Additionally, according to Rabban Gamliel, in the future the soil of Eretz Yisrael will produce fully formed bread (Shabbat 30b).  

Even though wheat clearly does not still grow on trees, we retain a connection to this ideal, even today. Shavout is the new year of the fruit of the tree (see Megilla 31b). The Korban we bring, for the purpose of bringing bracha to the fruit of the trees, consists not of fruit but of two loaves of bread. There is still a connection between wheat and the fruit of the tree, even if we don’t experience that connection in our fields today.

The bracha at the beginning of our parsha is an ideal. But it is an ideal that we retain a connection to. The Midrash points out that our bracha follows the order of the aleph-bet. It begins with the letter aleph and ends with the letter tav.  The aleph-bet is the order of creation. When the Midrash tells us that the bracha follows the order of the aleph-bet, it is making an important point about the nature of our world. This bracha is the original, intended, nature of the world. Bracha is not a chidush in the world; it is the essence of what this world is meant to be.

When we read through the parsha, what often strikes us is that the brachot are followed by a very long list of klalot, that seem to go on forever. But the Midrash points out that the klalot begin with the letter vav and end with the letter hey. They are exactly backward, the inverse of the purpose of creation. We have the ability to flip them around and turn them to good. Our world was created with the letter “bet,” the letter of expansion and bracha. Our natural state is to live in a world of bracha.

Why do we read this message just before Shavout? Because when we talk about Shavout being the new year for the trees, we mean this on two levels simultaneously. On the one hand, the yield of the trees is being determined for the next year. On the other hand, when we speak of a tree, we are also speaking of ourselves. As we read in Devarim 20:19 “for man is like the tree of the field.” Shavout is a new beginning for us as well. It is a beginning when we return to our roots, and to our true self.

We live physically by bread, but spiritually through the Torah: “man does not live by bread alone, but rather by whatever comes forth from the mouth of Hashem does man live (Devarim 8:3).” Once, both Torah and bread were easily available to us. Now, outside of Gan Eden, we have to work to attain these things. But we are meant to do this work in a specific way.

The nature of a tree is very different from the nature of a field. Each year, in the field, we begin again, plowing, sowing, planting. We have to tear down in order to grow. In contrast, the tree stands tall, year after year, and produces fruit from within itself. Yes, it needs to be tended to, and cultivated. But it never needs to be torn down in order to grow. The new year of Shavout is the new year of the tree. It is when we reconnect to our source of life, the Torah. It is the time when we reconnect to our original nature. We have no need to recreate ourselves in order to grow. We already have tremendous spiritual strength within. Our avodah is only to refine ourselves, for the purpose of allowing our inner strength to reveal inself naturally.

May we be blessed to succeed in finding the joy and tranquility of connecting to the Torah, and to our own inner strengths.