The beginning of the book of Numbers presented us with a rather rosy picture: all of Israel encamped by tribe around the Tabernacle, with God’s glory resting in their midst and the People preparing for a life of holiness, learning the teachings of the law from Moses. But the continuation of Numbers describes all sorts of mishaps and blames them on the Israelite’s shortcomings. Actually, the differences within the book were so great that Hazal considered the beginning and the end as different books interrupted by a middle section (10:35–36), which is marked by two inverted letters (nun) in the text.

The discrepancy between previous accounts of Moses’s leadership in the face of crisis and what we see now in our parashah seems to imply that something is not working anymore. This is also supported by the lack of angry reactions on God’s behalf on previous occasions of excessive complaints. At those times, God just told Moses to get the People water or made the manna appear, with no anger and certainly no punishment. But here, God unleashes His rage.

The difference is in the nature of the complaints. In Exodus, the People requested basic necessities of survival (food and water), while in Numbers, the complaint is about the menu: “not manna again.” But if that alone was the problem, then surely the one-month “Paleo diet” of meat and God’s flaring rage should have been enough to settle the issue. But the parashah points in a different direction: right before God announces to Moses that He will bring the quail, He instructs Moses to gather 70 elders of Israel () so that “they shall bear the burden of the people with you”(11:17). We remember that once before, Moses had been instructed to find others who could assist him () in judging the People. Somehow, these selected elders did not really become leaders. In Exodus, they were carefully instructed to apply certain rules in order to judge simpler cases, yet to leave the difficult decisions to Moses. Here the case seems different. God tells Moses that�����will share some of the prophetic insight with the 70 elders that Moses choses—elders who had already established themselves as leaders. It says in 11:16, “whom you have experienced as leaders and officers of the people.” So far, so good. But why would it make a difference?

The Israelites’ complaints now have a completely different character. These leaders belong to the same generation of elders who left Egypt and can remember all the hardships that the People endured there. How will they be able to understand the new generation? This generation is no longer struggling for pure survival but desires a bit of comfort and luxury. Let’s face it: idealism, enthusiasm, and charisma can be powerful driving forces and overcome enormous obstacles, but they will run out eventually. There will come a time when “when I was your age, I had to walk 15 miles to school, uphill both ways” will cease to make an impression on the younger generation. The hardships and sufferings of previous generations will become part of the collective memory, but they will not be personal, lived memory. And, at one point, they will fail to be the driving force of identity.

Maybe this is how Eldad and Medad (11:26) can be understood. They did not follow the call to go up to the Tent of Meeting with the other elders, but remained in the camp with the People—the same People who had grumbled. Maybe Eldad and Medad were able to see this widening (generational) gap and understand it for what it was: not a revolt, as such, but a normal process of growth and development. The People are slowly transforming.

Eldad and Medad seem to be right. Although they did not go up to the Tent of Meeting, they too receive the spirit of God and speak in ecstasy, this symbolizing their being affirmed as leaders by God. To Moses’s credit, he seems to understand what just happened, and although asked to intervene and stop Eldad and Medad, he recognizes their leadership and maybe also their subtle criticism against the “old guard.”&�Բ�����;Hazal also mentions that none of the other elders ever prophesized again (as referenced in verse 11:25, “but did not continue”), but Eldad and Medad went on to prophesy “until the day of their death” (Sifrei Numbers Beha’alotekha). 

This commentary was originally published in 2013.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

At first glance, the description of the Israelites’ journey from Sinai to the Promised Land seems to offer a model of clarity and ease:

Whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out accordingly; and at the place where the cloud settled, there the Israelites would encamp. At the word of Adonai the Israelites journeyed, and at the word of Adonai they encamped (עַל־פִּי ה’ יִסְעוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ): they remained encamped as long as the cloud rested on the Mishkan. When the cloud lingered on the Mishkan many days, the Israelites observed Adonai’s mandate and did not journey on. There were times when the cloud was over the Mishkan for a few days—at the word of Adonai they encamped and at the word of Adonai they journeyed (עַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יִסָּעוּ). There were times when the cloud was there from evening until morning and would lift in the morning—they would journey. Whether day or night, when the cloud lifted they would journey. Whether two days or a month or a year—however long the cloud lingered on the Mishkan—the Israelites remained encamped and did not journey; only when it lifted did they break camp. By the word of Adonai they encamped and by the word of Adonai they journeyed (עַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יִסָּעוּ); they observed Adonai’s mandate by the word of Adonai through Moses. ()

It’s a comforting solution—just follow the word of God! —but unfortunately, not especially helpful. If the Torah’s message is eternal, what does this model offer those of us (i.e., all of us) to whom God doesn’t “speak” quite so distinctly?

Fortunately, it’s not the only answer the Torah provides. Intermingled with this description of a straightforward, unwavering journey at the clear command of God, the Torah offers also a counternarrative.

Looking more closely, we come to suspect that God’s directions were anything but clear. Within this passage itself, God’s “guidance” is expressed not in distinct speech, but through a cloud—a metaphor suggesting obfuscation, not clarity—and needs to be mediated or interpreted “through Moses.” And immediately afterwards, we discover that additional navigational “technologies” are necessary:

• journeying instructions were given via trumpets specially crafted by Moses and blown by thekohanim. (10:1–8);
• the Ark of the Covenant traveled on ahead of them “to seek out a resting place for them” (10:33);

and most tellingly,

• Moses pleaded with his father-in-law Hovav to be their human guide (“[Moses] said, ‘Please do not abandon us, inasmuch as you know where we should camp in the wilderness, and you will be like eyes for us’.”) (10:31).

In other words, the path forward is never clear, and God isn’t a divine GPS. Revelation and faith shape our vision of where we want to go; they offer a compass pointing to true north, orienting us in the general direction of that vision. But to get there, we need maps, road signs, traffic signals, and human guides with a variety of expertise—religious and secular.

Similarly, although on the surface God “intended” and Israel expected that they would proceed directly and quickly to the Promised Land (per Rashi on 10:29, 10:33, within three days), the counter-narrative suggests that was never a realistic vision. The commentators sensitively pick up on the challenges inherent even in what was supposed to be a short journey—most especially, the standing still and waiting, for an unknown time.

For example, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (on 9:16–23) writes: “it is not so much the strain of lengthy wanderings as the patient endurance of the lengthy stops which seem to be stressed as the real task of the tests.” Similarly, Ramban, Bahya, and Seforno highlight the uncertainty and unpredictability of the encampments as especially difficult to bear. The result was on the one hand impatient, self-reinforcing complaining about the current situation (11:1 ff), and on the other hand disastrous spying ahead into the future, sapping the community of courage and keeping them from moving forward (12:1 ff). Combined, they turned a short trek into a forty-year, roundabout journey.

Here again, the contrast between the idealized “intent” and the reality on the ground speaks directly to the human condition. A journey worth taking is never linear, never easy, and we never handle it perfectly. While it’s natural to fantasize about quick fixes, lasting transformation—true progress—takes time, and inevitably meanders through error, regression, and backlash. Like the Israelites in the wilderness, it is rarely as simple as “at the word of Adonai we journey, and at the word of Adonai we encamp.” Rather, our fears keep us stuck when we’re called to advance, and our impatience and inability to bear uncertainty push us ahead when we’re called to stand still.

Thankfully, Judaism offers a wide complement of navigational tools to hone our powers of discernment, make us more sensitive readers of the terrain we traverse, and keep us on the path. Torah study with a partner, prayer and meditation, halakhic observance, deeds of lovingkindness, the practice of mussar (character development), participation in Jewish community (live or virtual)—all function as the maps, signposts, and traffic signals we need. And they nourish our resilience when the road ahead looks frightening, or the waiting and uncertainty seem almost too much to bear.

And ideally, our errors become teachers and guides too. Of the many navigational technologies that the Israelites utilized in the wilderness, perhaps the oddest was the ark: “The Ark of the Covenant of Adonai traveled in front of them a three days’ distance, to seek out a resting place for them” (10:33). This presents a difficulty. Elsewhere () we learn that “the ark of the covenant of Moses and the Lord did not move from the midst of the camp.” How can the ark be in the middle of the camp, and also somehow travelling by itself three days ahead? In solving the problem, the Midrash (Sifrei Bemidbar 82) offers a profound lesson in how we progress toward our goals. There were two arks: One (with the tablets) stayed in the middle of the camp. A second ark proceeded ahead to seek out the encampments. And what was in that second ark? The broken tablets, destroyed by Moses on seeing the Golden Calf ().

The path to the future moves through the past. We look ahead in our travels only to discover that our mistakes and sins, our brokenness, are “three days’ journey ahead”—allowing us the benefit of critical distance, but waiting for us nevertheless. The ark with our brokenness tells us where we need to stop and wait—to explore the issues and places that need attention, rectification, and healing, in order to move forward again in the right direction. It takes courage, patience, and resilience. Perhaps this is why “the place where they rested is also called a journey” (מְקוֹם חֲנִיָּתָן אַף הוּא קָרוּי מַסָּע) ().

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

God agreed that for such innocent victims of circumstance anxious to be part of the people Israel, another opportunity to make up for one’s absence in Nisan was called for. Thus, the rule was promulgated that certain conditions would allow for a “make-up day” exactly a month later, in what we call Iyyar.  But what situations would permit such a second chance (what came to be known as Pesah Sheni, a second Passover)?

Given the narrative, we expect that among the reasons the Torah gives for why a person might have legitimately missed the national ritual in Nisan is being in a state of tumah. But perhaps surprisingly, the rule also offers the second Passover to a person who was a long distance away from the Temple at the ritual’s appointed time: “When any party—whether you or your posterity—who is (on 14 Nisan) defiled by a corpse or is on a distant journey would offer a passover sacrifice to the Lord, they shall offer it in the second month (Iyyar), on the fourteenth day of the month, at twilight”&�Բ�����;(Numbers 9:10–11). This naturally raises the question of just what constitutes a “distant journey.”&�Բ�����;How far away must a person be at the original time of the ritual to qualify for the “make-up day”? The Mishnah (in Pesahim 9:2) reports a rather remarkable statement from Rabbi Eliezer, which is in turn related to what was already a scribal tradition back then, to wit, the placement of a dot over the last letter in the word “Rehokah,” meaning “distant”: 

What is a “distant journey”? . . . Rabbi Eliezer says: From the very threshold of the Temple courtyard and beyond. And Rabbi Yosei said: This is why there is a dot over the heh (the final letter) in the word ����ḥo�첹��; it is to say that it is not because he is actually distant; rather, it applies even from the threshold of the Temple courtyard and beyond. 

Imagine: someone is literally just steps away from the Temple courtyard on the 14th of Nisan, and because that person is not inside, it is considered to be accidental and deserving of a second opportunity to enter and fulfill the rite. For years, I asked myself the obvious question: If a person was at the threshold of the Temple at the appointed time, why didn’t they just go in? I came to understand it only when my Masorti colleagues in Israel described how many Israelis—people who would describe themselves as “secular”—would congregate in great numbers just outside their synagogues on Yom Kippur. Not going in; just being there for reasons that somehow impelled them to draw near but could not quite get them to enter. These Jews, I realized, are part of the answer to the question of why someone would be at a threshold and not go in. They sense that there is something there—something more—that their lives need, but they are not quite sure they will fit in, that they will be welcomed, and understood, and respected. So they stand at the gateway. 

It is hardly just an Israeli phenomenon. It is true throughout the Jewish world, and no doubt among other religious faiths as well. These people who are (figuratively) at the threshold are not necessarily accounted for in the various demographic reports from Pew and others. But they are there, and the message of Pesah Sheni is that we are forbidden to give up on them. It is we who have to seize the second chance to meet them, to respect them, to assure them that what is beyond the threshold is nurturance and spiritual growth, not judgment. 

While this week’s parashah doesn’t offer specific recipes to curb our increasing propensity for distractions and multitasking, it does offer us a visual framework for how to think about it and, in that sense, helps us reconsider how we are devoting our time and where we are investing our resources and talents.

The very beginning of Beha’alotekha sparks a disagreement among different interpreters regarding how the priests were supposed to light the Menorah in the Tabernacle. More specifically, they struggled to understand in what direction the wick of each one of the seven lamps of the Menorah was supposed to be aimed.

The argument centers around a particular Hebrew expression (bolded) in the instruction given to Aaron:

דַּבֵּר֙ אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֔ן וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֵלָ֑יו בְּהַעֲלֹֽתְךָ֙ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹ֔ת אֶל־מוּלá פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה יָאִ֖ירוּ שִׁבְעַ֥ת הַנֵּרֽוֹת׃

“Speak to Aaron and say to him: when you bring up the lamps el-mul pnei ��’m��Դǰ����� let the seven lamps give light.”

(Num. 8:2)

Our sages ask: How are we supposed to understand the expression אֶל־מוּלá פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה (el-mul pnei hamenorah) and to what part of the clause does it belong? Should we read it as qualifying the last clause (“When you bring up the lamps, el-mul pnei hamenorah let the seven lamps give light”)? Or should we read it as qualifying the first clause (“When you bring up the lamps el-mul pnei ��’m��Դǰ�����, let the seven lamps give light”)?

Ibn Ezra understands the expression אֶל־מוּלá פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה to mean “at the front of the Menorah” and he reads this verse in light of another verse about the Menorah back in Exodus 25:37, which states, “Make its seven lamps—the lamps shall be so brought up as to give the light עבר פניה(on its front side).” For him, this expression qualifies the last clause and thus Numbers 8:2 should be read as follows: 

“When you bring up the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the Menorah”.��

In that sense, the passage in Numbers reinforces what has already been said in Exodus, that Aaron needs to make sure to point all the seven lamps forward, as Jacob Milgrom explains, “for maximum illumination of the altar of incense and the table of the bread of presence.”

But earlier interpreters were troubled by this explanation. Influenced by Rabbi Akiva’s principle that divine language could never be superfluous or redundant, they wondered: Why would the Torah give this instruction (to point all the lamps forward) here, if it has already done so back in Exodus 25:37? 

According to the Gur Aryeh, some interpreters suggested that while Exodus 25:37 gave a generic instruction about the lights of the seven lamps aiming forward, Numbers 8:2 provides a more detailed instruction, saying that all of them have to be directed toward one specific point against the central lamp of the menorah. So, according to these readers, the verse should be read as following:

“When you bring up the lamps, let the seven lamps give light against the center of the Menorah.”&�Բ�����;

Finally, the Midrash in Sifrei, guided by the same principle about redundancy, suggested another reading. According to Sifrei, if we only had the verse in Exodus 25:37, we might have thought that each one of the seven lamps was supposed to be shining forward on its own. Numbers 8:2 teaches us instead that the lamps should be shining together. How? By facing (אֶל־מוּלá) the inside (פְּנֵ֣י from פנימה/���Բ������) of the Menorah, meaning, “three toward the East and three toward the West, so they will all be acknowledging the center lamp.” According to Sifrei, the verse should be read as follows:

“When you bring up the lamps toward the inside of the Menorah, (in that manner) let the seven lamps give light.”

Thus we arrive at three different understandings about how to direct the lights of the Menorah: “at the front of the Menorah,” “against the center of the Menorah,” and “towards the inside of the Menorah.”

Inspired by the verse in Proverbs 20:27 “The lifebreath of man is the lamp of the LORD,” many see in the Menorah a symbol for human beings and their own lights. So what could these three different ways of directing the light of the Menorah offer us, as we face the challenge of reclaiming attention and purpose?

Regarding the first understanding (“at the front of the Menorah”), one could read this expression together with the previous clause in the verse (“when you bring up the lamps”) to mean: If you want to bring up your light, you need to bring this light to the front. “Up” can only happen in conjunction with “forward”. In an era of information accessibility and overload, it is very easy for us to fall into rabbit holes and loose a sense of agency. Recovering that sense of agency might require stepping outside from the information input loop and carve some regular time to share of ourselves with others.

The second understanding (“against the center of the Menorah”), reminds us that while some kind of multitasking might be possible in our daily lives, creativity, understanding and deep connections can only really be achieved when we are in a state of hyper focus.

Finally, regarding the last understanding (“towards the inside of the Menorah”), Rabbi Moshe Hefetz (Melekhet Mahshevet) suggested that the seven lamps stood for seven wisdoms, the middle one being the wisdom of Torah. According to him, when one shares one’s wisdoms with the world, one needs to make sure that they are true to their core, Torah. In an era of infinite demands, we also need to set aside some regular time to reconnect to our core, to God, to Torah, so we can regain clarity on our priorities. And that is how “all the seven will give light.”

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Part of the success of such current advocacy efforts lies in educating search committees to recognize their biases in whom they view as a strong candidate, or when they might be adhering to outmoded ideas of what makes one qualified for a position. Organizations have also been challenged to rethink job descriptions. For example, how does inclusion of a line such as “must have experience with organizational budgeting” serve as a barrier to attracting a range of candidates who might not yet have this skill, but would shine in other significant areas of leadership, and would readily learn on the job?  Parashat Beha’alotekha offers an opportunity for considering bias in age and ability, in detailing one of the most ancient and structured job descriptions that exists: that of the Levite.

The Levites are a privileged group, selected for service to God. They are specially prepared for this position through intricate steps, which the Torah outlines for Moses and Aaron as their supervisors. God first instructs Moses in how he will step-by-step ready the Levites for their role: cleanse them with water of purification, shave their whole body with a razor, and wash their clothes (8: 6–10). Moses and Aaron will then bring the Levites before the Tent of Meeting, and the Israelites will be part of the ceremony and ritual that marks the moment the Levites have transitioned into this venerated position. The Levites are now distinct from the ordinary Israelites: “Thus you shall set the Levites apart from the Israelites, and the Levites shall be Mine” (8:14).

Immediately following this detailed description, God makes clear that this privilege and status will have a ceiling, a firm “aging out” threshold:

This is the rule for the Levites. From twenty-five years of age up they shall participate in the work force in the service of the Tent of Meeting; but at the age of fifty they shall retire from the work force and shall serve no more. They may assist their brother Levites at the Tent of Meeting by standing guard, but they shall perform no labor . . . (8: 24–26)

Ramban’s commentary on the above verses highlights how age limits on one aspect of a role can bias perceptions on what makes for an overall productive and effective worker. He references Rashi’s interpretation of an earlier passage that designates a specific age-band for the Levites for carrying burdens: “from the age of thirty years up to the age of fifty, all who were subject to duties of service and porterage relating to the Tent of Meeting” (Numbers, 4:47), and refutes Rashi’s assertation that the Levite can also “close the gates, or…sing, or…load the wagons.” Ramban ties one core element of the Levite role (singing) to another (preparing and facilitating burnt offerings), and in doing so, makes a case for Levites aging out of all Levite roles at age 50; if their bodies could not support the laborious work of presenting offerings, they could not perform any part of the job, including singing:

. . . And this indeed appears correct [that a Levite above the age of fifty was not allowed to take part in the singing] . . . And since the Kohathites [who were the only ones permitted to carry the ark] were counted from thirty to fifty years old, even for singing, they were all counted in this manner . . . so [it is clear that] when there was [the duty of] bearing the burdens upon the shoulders, the Levites were disqualified from singing as well [after the age of fifty] . . . .

This distinct age-band (and Ramban’s position on the Levite’s mandatory retirement from all duties at age 50) beckons questions of relevance for contemporary job equity efforts. What biases might we hold today toward what qualifications and abilities should be seen as indispensable for a job? For example, many early childhood teaching positions include a line such as, “Requires heavy physical work; heavy lifting, pushing, or pulling required of objects up to 50 pounds.” Might this statement preclude a more senior candidate who possesses all other qualifications and experience to be discounted? How might we best uplift what more experienced candidates can contribute—of discernment and ability to train the next generation? The Levite job description offers opportunity for continued dialogue about expansiveness of age range, abilities, and manifold ways to contribute to Jewish community.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

At first glance, the description of the Israelites’ journey from Sinai to the Promised Land seems to offer a model of clarity and ease:

Whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out accordingly; and at the place where the cloud settled, there the Israelites would encamp. At the word of Adonai the Israelites journeyed, and at the word of Adonai they encamped (עַל־פִּי ה’ יִסְעוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ): they remained encamped as long as the cloud rested on the Mishkan. When the cloud lingered on the Mishkan many days, the Israelites observed Adonai’s mandate and did not journey on. There were times when the cloud was over the Mishkan for a few days—at the word of Adonai they encamped and at the word of Adonai they journeyed (עַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יִסָּעוּ). There were times when the cloud was there from evening until morning and would lift in the morning—they would journey. Whether day or night, when the cloud lifted they would journey. Whether two days or a month or a year—however long the cloud lingered on the Mishkan—the Israelites remained encamped and did not journey; only when it lifted did they break camp. By the word of Adonai they encamped and by the word of Adonai they journeyed (עַל־פִּי ה’ יַחֲנוּ וְעַל־פִּי ה’ יִסָּעוּ); they observed Adonai’s mandate by the word of Adonai through Moses. (Num. 9:17–23)

It’s a comforting solution—just follow the word of God! —but unfortunately, not especially helpful. If the Torah’s message is eternal, what does this model offer those of us (i.e., all of us) to whom God doesn’t “speak” quite so distinctly?

Fortunately, it’s not the only answer the Torah provides. Intermingled with this description of a straightforward, unwavering journey at the clear command of God, the Torah offers also a counternarrative.

Looking more closely, we come to suspect that God’s directions were anything but clear. Within this passage itself, God’s “guidance” is expressed not in distinct speech, but through a cloud—a metaphor suggesting obfuscation, not clarity—and needs to be mediated or interpreted “through Moses.” And immediately afterwards, we discover that additional navigational “technologies” are necessary:

• journeying instructions were given via trumpets specially crafted by Moses and blown by the kohanim. (10:1–8);
• the Ark of the Covenant traveled on ahead of them “to seek out a resting place for them” (10:33);

and most tellingly,

• Moses pleaded with his father-in-law Hovav to be their human guide (“[Moses] said, ‘Please do not abandon us, inasmuch as you know where we should camp in the wilderness, and you will be like eyes for us’.”) (10:31).

In other words, the path forward is never clear, and God isn’t a divine GPS. Revelation and faith shape our vision of where we want to go; they offer a compass pointing to true north, orienting us in the general direction of that vision. But to get there, we need maps, road signs, traffic signals, and human guides with a variety of expertise—religious and secular.

Similarly, although on the surface God “intended” and Israel expected that they would proceed directly and quickly to the Promised Land (per Rashi on 10:29, 10:33, within three days), the counter-narrative suggests that was never a realistic vision. The commentators sensitively pick up on the challenges inherent even in what was supposed to be a short journey—most especially, the standing still and waiting, for an unknown time.

For example, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (on 9:16–23) writes: “it is not so much the strain of lengthy wanderings as the patient endurance of the lengthy stops which seem to be stressed as the real task of the tests.” Similarly, Ramban, Bahya, and Seforno highlight the uncertainty and unpredictability of the encampments as especially difficult to bear. The result was on the one hand impatient, self-reinforcing complaining about the current situation (11:1 ff), and on the other hand disastrous spying ahead into the future, sapping the community of courage and keeping them from moving forward (12:1 ff). Combined, they turned a short trek into a forty-year, roundabout journey.

Here again, the contrast between the idealized “intent” and the reality on the ground speaks directly to the human condition. A journey worth taking is never linear, never easy, and we never handle it perfectly. While it’s natural to fantasize about quick fixes, lasting transformation—true progress—takes time, and inevitably meanders through error, regression, and backlash. Like the Israelites in the wilderness, it is rarely as simple as “at the word of Adonai we journey, and at the word of Adonai we encamp.” Rather, our fears keep us stuck when we’re called to advance, and our impatience and inability to bear uncertainty push us ahead when we’re called to stand still.

Thankfully, Judaism offers a wide complement of navigational tools to hone our powers of discernment, make us more sensitive readers of the terrain we traverse, and keep us on the path. Torah study with a partner, prayer and meditation, halakhic observance, deeds of lovingkindness, the practice of mussar (character development), participation in Jewish community (live or virtual)—all function as the maps, signposts, and traffic signals we need. And they nourish our resilience when the road ahead looks frightening, or the waiting and uncertainty seem almost too much to bear.

And ideally, our errors become teachers and guides too. Of the many navigational technologies that the Israelites utilized in the wilderness, perhaps the oddest was the ark: “The Ark of the Covenant of Adonai traveled in front of them a three days’ distance, to seek out a resting place for them” (10:33). This presents a difficulty. Elsewhere (Num. 14:44) we learn that “the ark of the covenant of Moses and the Lord did not move from the midst of the camp.” How can the ark be in the middle of the camp, and also somehow travelling by itself three days ahead? In solving the problem, the Midrash (Sifrei Bemidbar 82) offers a profound lesson in how we progress toward our goals. There were two arks: One (with the tablets) stayed in the middle of the camp. A second ark proceeded ahead to seek out the encampments. And what was in that second ark? The broken tablets, destroyed by Moses on seeing the Golden Calf (Exod. 32:19).

The path to the future moves through the past. We look ahead in our travels only to discover that our mistakes and sins, our brokenness, are “three days’ journey ahead”—allowing us the benefit of critical distance, but waiting for us nevertheless. The ark with our brokenness tells us where we need to stop and wait—to explore the issues and places that need attention, rectification, and healing, in order to move forward again in the right direction. It takes courage, patience, and resilience. Perhaps this is why “the place where they rested is also called a journey” (מְקוֹם חֲנִיָּתָן אַף הוּא קָרוּי מַסָּע) (Rashi on Exod. 40:38).

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

4. The Lord suddenly said to Moses, Aaron and Miriam, “Go out, all three of you, to the Tent of Meeting!” And all three went out. 5. The Lord descended in a pillar of cloud and stood at the entrance of the Tent. He called to Aaron and Miriam, and they both went out. 6. He said, “Please listen to My words. If there be prophets among you, [I] the Lord will make Myself known to him in a vision; I will speak to him in a dream. 7. Not so is My servant Moses; he is faithful throughout My house. 8. With him I speak mouth to mouth; in a vision and not in riddles, and he beholds the image of the Lord. So why were you not afraid to speak against My servant Moses? 9. The wrath of the Lord flared against them and He left. (Num. 12:4–9)

Notice, however, that before chastising Miriam and Aaron, God speaks “suddenly” to Moses, Aaron, and Miriam requesting that “all three of you” go to the Tent of Meeting: The following verse, however, is somewhat puzzling since God “called [only] to Aaron and Miriam and they both went out”. Why does God ask all three of them to appear at the Tent of Meeting, yet he invites only Aaron and Miriam to come forward?

Rashi articulates our question as “Why did [God] separate them from Moses?” He then offers two possible solutions, firstly:

“Because [it is appropriate that people] say [only] part of a person’s praise in his presence, and all of it when not in his presence.”

According to this explanation, God did not want Moses to be present when He was praising Moses as highly as he does in verses 6–8:The lesson that Rashi is teaching is clear—but the rationale is not! Why should one not praise a person too highly in his presence? Some possible reasons:

1. Most obviously, praising a person too highly in his presence may cause the person to become haughty.
2. Or possibly, the dictum is not meant for the sake of the one who is being praised, but rather for the one doing the praising: by praising a person too highly to his face, one runs the risk of appearing like a disingenuous flatterer. (Rashi actually makes this point in his commentary on the Talmud [BT Eruvin 18b].)

In other words, it may be laudable to praise a person, but don’t overdo it; you must consider the potential ramifications for both the one who is being praised and for the one doing the praising. Interestingly, Rashi’s comment can be understood from either the perspective of the one receiving or the one giving praise.

Characteristically, Rashi offers an alternate explanation for God’s having separated Miriam and Aaron from Moses:

“Alternatively, God separated [Miriam and Aaron from Moses] so that he [Moses] should not hear Aaron’s reprimand.”

But why shouldn’t Moses hear it?

Once again the rationale for Rashi’s comment is not explicitly stated, however:

1. The first one that comes to mind is that God was concerned for Aaron’s honor, lest Aaron be shamed in the presence of his brother Moses.
2. Equally possible, God may not have wanted Moses to hear Aaron being rebuked on his account.

In this interpretation, perspective plays a role again: God is either trying to protect the one being rebuked (Aaron), or the one being defended (Moses)—or both.

There very well may be situations where one must rebuke another person. Nevertheless, one should carefully consider the nature of the delivery—in our case, who is present when the rebuking is taking place.

Rashi’s first comment above focuses on the act of praising, while his alternative comment focuses on the act of rebuking, sensitizing us to the need to carefully consider the manner and the venue in which we praise or rebuke one another.

Ramban is sensitive to the very same textual issue, though he addresses the flip side of Rashi’s question. While Rashi ponders why God separated Aaron and Miriam from the original three, Ramban wonders why the three of them were called to begin with, if God intended to separate them. Why did God call Moses at all?

Ramban offers two possible reasons:

1. “The reason [that God said] ‘You three, go out,’ [yet when they arrived] He summoned Aaron and Miriam [alone], is because He wanted Moses to be there and see God’s taking up his cause in [defense] of his honor.
2. “And [additionally] so that [Moses] would be accessible to them for God would not forgive them except through [Moses], when they would beg him [for forgiveness] and he would be reconciled to them.”

According to Ramban’s first comment, God wanted Moses to know that God was protective of his honor. So perhaps God is teaching those of us in positions of authority—teachers, parents, employers, politicians, others—that not only must we defend those under our care, but we must model behavior for them, so they, too, will learn the importance of defending others. Therefore, there may be situations where people must be made demonstrably aware of that which is being done on their behalf.

Alternatively, based on the first comment, God may have wanted Moses to understand what was being done on his behalf, so he would realize that God, who regularly is making demands upon Moses, indeed, appreciates his service. Just one chapter earlier, Moses comes close to despair when he tells God “Why have you done bad to your servant, and why have I not found favor in your eyes, to set the burden of this entire nation on me?” (11:11–15). So many relationships falter when one party begins to wonder if they are appreciated. How many teachers, parents, employers make demands of those in their charge, yet forget to make them aware of the fact that they are valued? God may be modeling behavior for us, yet again.

However, according to Ramban’s second interpretation, God wants Moses to be readily available to Miriam and Aaron, so when they are made aware of their inappropriate behavior, they could immediately turn to Moses for forgiveness. (Rabbi Catharine Clark suggested that God is once again modeling behavior for us by creating the conditions that might lead to appeasement and forgiveness.) For God would not, or could not, forgive them, unless they approached Moses themselves. An important lesson indeed: when one has offended another, one must make amends to that person; it is of no value to ask God for forgiveness before one has been forgiven by the offended party. Note that this interpretation of Ramban’s is being made from Miriam and Aaron’s perspective, while Ramban’s first interpretation is being made from Moses’s perspective.

The commentators’ interpretations encountered thus far relate to God’s modeling behavior for the sake of humankind. In the following comment, Rashi explicitly articulates the importance of emulating God’s behavior.

To review, Miriam and Aaron speak against Moses; God appears to them suddenly and invites them (and Moses) to the Tent of Meeting; God makes them aware of their offense, and rebukes them. Finally, the Torah mentions that God was angry with them (verse 9): “The wrath of the Lord flared against them.” Why, however, did the Torah wait so long to mention that God was angry? Rashi (quoting Sifrei) addresses that question:

“[Only] after He informed them of their offence did He decree banishment upon them—how much more so should [a human of] flesh and blood not display anger towards his fellow until he informs his fellow of his offence.”

In this instance, Rashi explicitly articulates the lesson that one should let another know why he’s angry before displaying that anger. But why? A couple of possibilities come to mind: first from the perspective of the one who will be rebuked, and then from the perspective of the one who is angry:

1. For various reasons, it is essential that the one who is being punished or ignored be apprised of the nature of the offence. It can be emotionally debilitating to be punished or given the cold shoulder without knowing the cause. The offending party should at least be given the opportunity to make amends. (This is what Ramban suggests in his second interpretation above.)
2. The one who is angry also has much to gain emotionally by apprising the offending party of his offence. Rather than displaying anger immediately, one ought to take the time to consider his options, instead of reacting impulsively. Similarly, rather than allowing the anger to fester, one can give the offending party the opportunity to apologize or make amends.

In the verses we explored above, both Rashi and Ramban offer us life lessons based on our emulating behavior that God is modeling. Rashi and Ramban encourage us to consider the rationale(s) for these lessons by not providing them—thereby allowing us to actively participate in the process of interpretation and the internalization of the lessons derived.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Parashat Beha’alotekha reminds us there is more to religious observance than words. There is profound power in body language—in nonverbal rituals that involve, even mark, the body. The beginning of the parashah describes the ritual the Levites must undergo before they can handle the sacred objects associated with the tabernacle. The ritual involves washing the Levites’ bodies and clothes, and full-body shaving (Num. 8:7). Why must the Levites ritually shave their whole bodies before beginning their sacred service? How do we understand the meaning of this “body language”?

This is not the only place in the Bible that presents shaving in a ritual context, although not always full-body shaving. As is currently true, shaving is a ritual associated with mourning practices in the Bible. Today the Jewish custom is not to shave during the first 30 days of mourning, which finds Torah support in Deut. 14:1–2. Interestingly, other biblical passages (Amos 8:10, Isaiah 22:12, Jeremiah 16:6, and Job 1:20) suggest that shaving, particularly bald spots on one’s head, was a common mourning practice in ancient Israel.

Shaving also can be viewed as a purification rite in the Bible. Once a person who was diagnosed with leprosy is healed, they bathe and shave before being declared clean enough to enter the camp (Lev. 14:8). As Rashi notes (on Num. 8:7), this ritual is strikingly similar to the Levite’s rites described in our parashah, suggesting that there is either a commonality in the leper and the Levite or in the purpose of the ritual. Since it is hard to see an obvious connection between a leper and a Levite (unless, of course, the Levite has leprosy), it seems more likely that ritual shares the common purpose of purification. Once the Levites have bathed and shaved, they are pure enough to handle the sacred cultic objects.

I offer an additional way to understand the ritual of shaving that does not prevent seeing shaving as a mourning practice in some contexts, or as a purification rite in others, but adds another dimension to its ritual potency that applies to the case of the Levites. Shaving may purify the Levites for service, but it also marks a transitional moment in their status. Levites are born Levites, but they are unable to perform the levitical duties until they prepare their bodies ritually to do so. Shaving is a ritual that enables and indicates this shift in their status. In this way, it functions as a transitional ritual that helps an individual move from one state to another.

Similarly, shaving marks a transition in the status of an individual who vows to become a nazir. According to the laws found in Num. 6:1–21, a nazir is a man or a woman who assumes a sanctified status by adopting priest-like behaviors for a prescribed period of time during which the nazir is prohibited from cutting his or her hair. Upon fulfillment of the vow, a nazir shaves and offers the hair on the altar along with a sacrifice of well-being. For both the Levite and the nazir, shaving is a ritual of transition. Yet, whereas shaving helps transition the Levite into holy service, shaving transitions the nazir back into secular life.

These multiple ways of understanding the ritual meaning of shaving—as a mourning, purification, or transitional rite—illustrate how body language is a powerful mode of expression. Body language is both blunt and imprecise. It makes a strong emotional statement and yet is open to interpretation. Naturally, all forms of language are subject to interpretation, but I argue that body language has an intentional flexibility and is more willing to contain multiple meanings than written or spoken language. Unlike verbal language, body language does not try to spell things out. It intends to be experienced and witnessed more than to be understood. Even more remarkable is that those who experience body language and those who witness it can have very different reactions to it,  though both reactions are intended. This intentional ambiguity is central to its potency. Body language can be cathartic to those who “speak” it while disturbing to those who “read” it. I imagine that the shorn Levite might have felt clean and vulnerable, while an observer of his hairless body might have felt shock or even disgust.

Jews are people of the book, but we are also people of the body. The ritual of shaving is just one example of embodied practice. Circumcision may be the most obvious other example. But there is also the mikveh—the ritual bath in which Jews immerse their bodies—as well as moments of body choreography such as bending our knees when we recite certain prayers. And of course there are ritual meals. In fact, eating may be Jews’ most favorite form of body language.

I would like to see more embodied Jewish practice—more rituals that involve the body, maybe even temporarily mark the body. I certainly am not advocating that full body shaving become a standard ritual practice, though hair manipulation is an easy and powerful way to mark transitions since it usually grows back. I am thinking more along the lines of the Yemenite marriage practice of henna tattoos.

In general, I am advocating finding ways to use our bodies more in ritual Jewish life. I love coming to shul on Yom Kippur and reading together that 250-page book. I love listening to and reciting the ancient words of my tradition, but my most favorite moment of Yom Kippur, the moment that always brings me to tears, is the moment when I drop full-body to the ground during the Aleinu prayer, signaling my acceptance of God’s regal power. In this moment, my body speaks more for me than my mouth ever could.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).