All of Torah is shaped by the knowledge of where the story ends—not with the people of Israel entering the Land, but with them situated on the other side of the Jordan. They will enter the Land in the book of Joshua, but that is not part of the Torah. The Torah ends with the not yet, with the longing, with an experience of incompletion. There are profound theological implications to this ending. We don’t focus on triumph, on everything being right. We make space for brokenness. And perhaps the story of yetziat Mitzrayim, being redeemed from Egypt, is told in this way to keep us connected to the personal story of Moshe Rabbenu. It is Moshe Rabbenu who is most acutely affected by not being able to enter the Land. In this week’s parashah we encounter Moshe’s anguish in a powerful way. The parashah begins with his plea:

וָאֶתְחַנַּן אֶל־יְהוָה בָּעֵת הַהִוא לֵאמֹר׃

I pleaded with the LORD at that time, saying, “O Lord GOD, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal! Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, that good hill country, and the Lebanon.” ()

Moses pleaded with God. �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���. What’s the meaning of �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���? Midrash Tanhuma (�ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ��� 3:1) acknowledges that prayer is called by many names and asks why Moshe prayed in the language of “tahanunim”—consolation/comfort. This is because God doesn’t owe God’s creatures anything, “rather I give it to them as a free gift.” We learn this from , when Moses pleads to see God’s presence, God responds by saying: “I will offer grace when I offer grace (hanoti) and have compassion when I have compassion.” The word for pleading—et-hannan—and the word for consolation—tahanunim—and the word for grace—hen—share root letters, helping us to understand that the choice of verb conveys that Moshe is hoping his pleading will evoke God’s grace, and that will be the source of Moshe’s comfort. Moshe uses the word v��’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���&�Բ�����;to say: ten li hinam, please give me a free gift.

Moshe has a strong idea about what that gift needs to be: being allowed to go into the Land. But God tells Moshe not to speak of this again. “But the LORD was wrathful with me on your account and would not listen to me. The LORD said to me, ‘Rav lakh, Enough! Never speak to Me of this matter again!’�ĝ ().

The Bekhor Shor, the French Rabbi Joseph ben Isaac, understands God’s admonition as follows: “I’ve done enough miracles for you. Leave space for others to feel that they have been distinguished by me. Because there won’t be an end to what you want me to do for you. After you enter the Land, you will then ask to see the Temple.” This is a reverse Dayyenu, the song that proclaims, “it would have been enough” that we sing at the Passover seder. Here, God warns, there will never be enough. The only way for there to be enough is if you see that this, even in it not being enough, is enough.

God is instructing Moshe to see the abundance. God is helping Moshe to cultivate a sense of gratitude in the face of brokenness. The comfort comes in seeing the gifts that exist even in the brokenness. The hen, the grace, the free gift, does not depend on reaching the Land. It is already possessed by you. When God tells Moshe that he can see the Land from where he is, God teaches him that the gift, the abundance, doesn’t need to look like what he thought—and hoped—it would look like. If we can find a way to cultivate gratitude, to find ways to affirm rav lakh, enough, then we can experience the hen/grace in our lives. And this is where we can find comfort.

In this week’s haftarah, the prophetic reading, we find another layer of teaching about comfort, in the words of the prophet Isaiah: “A voice rings out: ‘Proclaim!’ Another asks, ‘What shall I proclaim?’ ‘All flesh is grass, all its goodness like flowers of the field: grass withers, flowers fade when the breath of the LORD blows on them. Indeed, man is but grass: grass withers, flowers fade—but the word of our God is always fulfilled!’�ĝ (). These words are offered as comfort, so the question is, what is comforting about them? For me, it’s the honest acknowledgement of the fragility of life, along with the faith that God’s word—and God’s self—is eternal. There’s an invitation to depend on the largeness and permanence of the divine to help us experience the abundance. Each individual life withers and fades, but we are all held in the divine abundance which endures forever.

A verse in our parshah captures this beautifully: וְאַתֶּם הַדְּבֵקִים בַּיהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם חַיִּים כֻּלְּכֶם הַיּוֹם, “while you, who held fast to the LORD your God, are all alive today”(). I love the image of holding fast to God. There’s an urgency here. And the promise that life—abundant life—is tied not to achievement, to reaching the Land, but to being in relationship with that which is eternal. We say this verse each time we are about to read from the sefer Torah, the Torah scroll, in community. As a community we can help one another to hold fast. Coming together as a community, for the sake of holding fast, fosters deep possibilities for comfort.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

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

Both Shema paragraphs appear as part of Moshe’s valedictory speech, delivered as the people are camped on the east side of the Jordan River, waiting to cross over to the Promised Land. As he reviews their history with them, Moshe recounts their lapses of faith and resulting punishments. The message that he repeats several times (in his very long talk) is that the Israelites showed themselves, again and again, to be people of little faith who were not appreciative of the great good that God had showered upon them. Moshe depicts God as demanding unwavering loyalty from His chosen people. If they stray, they will suffer dire consequences.

This context helps explain why both Shema paragraphs need to be included in our morning and evening prayers. The first paragraph opens with a confession of faith in the one God, and demands loving this one God with all our heart, soul, and might. It goes on to say that we are to keep the words God issued this day in our hearts and on our lips at all times, and we should teach them to our children. We are even told to “wear” these commandments on our arms and foreheads and to display them in public places. In all, the first paragraph of the Shema is very upbeat, with its focus on love of God and mitzvot.

The second paragraph opens with a statement similar to the first line of the first paragraph: love God with all one’s heart and soul. It goes on to say that if we do so, then all will go well. The rains will come in due season, the crops will grow, people will eat and be satisfied. But the paragraph then switches tone: if the people abandon God, catastrophe will result. The rains will not come, the crops will not grow, and people will perish from the good land to which God brought them. Moshe ends the section with words nearly identical to those that ended the first iteration of the Shema: place these words on your hearts, bind them on your arms and between your eyes, teach them to your children, and display them in public places.

We now realize that the first paragraph of the Shema in Deuteronomy 6 is the version without contingency. We are merely told to love God and keep God’s words always on our lips. No threat of punishment for deserting God. But that is only half of the covenantal offer. It is the repetition of the Shema in Chapter 11 that presents the complete terms of the offer. Before we sign on, we need to understand that there are consequences to lack of compliance.

When the rabbis of the Talmud instituted Jewish prayer, they decided to mandate the recitation of both versions of the Shema, morning and night, every single day of the year. But why include the first version if the second, expanded version, which immediately follows in the prayer service, says everything? My guess is that since the first opens with the statement of belief in one God in very clear and direct terms, which the second does not, the rabbis decided to make it the opening paragraph, even though it does not demand observance of the mitzvot. The second does make such a demand. Both are therefore necessary: first tell the people to love God and the mitzvot without mentioning consequences for not doing so, and then tell them what happens if they stop loving God and observing the mitzvot.

In addition to these two paragraphs of the Shema, the rabbis of the Talmud added a third, Parashat Tzitzit (Num. 15:37–41). The point is to have a physical reminder, fringes on the garments, to keep the mitzvot and not stray.

In today’s Orthodox and Conservative siddurim, both versions of the Shema appear, one after the other, as has been standard practice over the years. The Reform movement, in its Mishkan Tefilah siddur, omits the second paragraph, seeing no need to threaten serious punishment for non-compliance. This is not the way, in its opinion, to incentivize people to keep the mitzvot. But all three siddurim include the third paragraph.

In all siddurim, there is one more addition to the Shema. Following the Shema Yisrael opening statement, we find the words barukh shem kevod malkhuto le-olam va’ed (Blessed is the name of the One whose glorious kingdom is forever and ever). Since these words interrupt a series of verses from �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���, even though they themselves are not a verse, they should appear in a smaller font. And in most siddurim they do. This line is simply a call to bless God’s name upon hearing it recited aloud, as did the kohanim in the Temple in Jerusalem, most famously on Yom Kippur. The Mishnah tells us that when the kohanim would say these words, they would prostrate themselves, nose to the ground (Mishnah Yoma 6:2). On all days of the year, except for Yom Kippur, this line is now said quietly to distinguish it from the verses of the Shema. On Yom Kippur, it is still said out loud.

Shema is one of the few prayers for which the rabbis of the Talmud stipulate that one has to recite the words with kavanah, intention. Not an easy task for prayers that are so familiar to many of us. But knowing that the second paragraph is an expansion of the first, with some sections repeated and others introducing demands for observance of the mitzvot, should not make us angry but rather assist us in achieving a deeper engagement with this prayer.

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

Hear, O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai alone. You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your “muchness.” Take to heart these instructions with which I charge you this day. Impress them upon your children. Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down, and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead; inscribe them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.

(Deut. 6:4–9)

In these verses, we are commanded to place before us at all times words of Torah. They are to be in our hearts, in our mouths, on our heads and hands, and at the entrances to our homes.

Indeed, according to the rabbinic tradition, the commandment in verse 6 to place these words on our hearts is intended to teach us how to fulfill the foundational commandment to “love God” found in the previous verse:

“These words which I command you today shall be upon your heart.” Why is this written? Because it says, “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart.” But I do not know how one comes to love the Holy Blessed One! Therefore it says “these words which I command you this day shall be upon your heart.” Keep these words on your heart, for in this way you will come to recognize the Holy Blessed One and to cleave to God’s ways.

Sifrei Devarim 33

This causal connection makes intuitive sense. Love for another is premised on our encountering and coming to know (or at least recognize) the other; it is then expressed by our acting on what we know (i.e., behaving in ways which will please the beloved). So too with our love for God. By bringing the words of Torah into our hearts, we sensitize ourselves to God’s presence, learn more about God’s ways, and are thus better able to act in consonance with the Divine will.

Rabbi Menachem Mendl of Kotzk, however, points to a problem with the phrase al levavekha, “on your heart”: “[t]he text should have written ‘in your heart’ for it needs to be in the innermost parts of the heart.” The challenge is significant. How effective are words of Torah which remain on the surface of the heart, never penetrating within?

The Kotzker answers:

But, the intention of the verse is that at the very least, the words should be upon your hearts. Because for the majority, the heart is closed. Yet, there is no person whose heart is never open. And then, the words can fall, truly, into the heart. And it is regarding this that we pray, “open my heart with Your Torah” (petah libi betoratekha); God will open our hearts with the Torah.

Sefer Amud Ha’emet, on Deut. 6:6

The Torah commands us to place these words on our hearts, rather than in them, because it is not always within our ability to place words of Torah into our hearts. In Biblical parlance, the word “heart” (lev) refers at once to the seat of intellect and of emotion. Human experience, however, teaches that the two are often quite far apart. Studying the words of Torah and understanding them intellectually—even at very profound levels—is no guarantee that they will permeate our being. We are all too capable of reading the words without living them, speaking them without integrating them into who we are. Sadly, this is often true despite our very real desire to live what we learn. For even when the mind is wide open, the heart can be sealed shut. Therefore, sometimes the best we can do is make the words available, so that should the heart open, the words will be there.

In acknowledging these limitations on our ability to internalize the words of God, the Kotzker subtly recasts our obligations as Jews. I am told that within the discourse of psychoanalysis, faith is sometimes described not as a belief “in” something, but rather as a disposition such that despite the trauma of the past, one remains open to the possibilities offered in the next moment.^[1]

Many of us carry disappointment, hurt, or shame that affects our religious lives, whether or not we’d call it “trauma.” We are the inheritors of a Torah filled with narratives of human beings and God disappointing and angering each other, and we likely each have our own stories. We may feel wronged by God or by “religion”—having lived or witnessed Job-like suffering or been wounded or disappointed by a faith leader or community. Or we may carry feelings of shame and inadequacy from our own failures, or hopelessness in the face of the failures of humanity. Looking at our individual and collective history, we might conclude that we will never be able to live up to what the Torah demands. No matter how many times we declare God’s oneness, we sometimes divide rather than unify, sow discord rather than harmony. Most often, we do not love God with all of our hearts, with all of our souls, and with all of our “muchness”; our resources are all too frequently engaged in the service of something else, usually our own egos. We may come to believe that no matter how much we study, and how long we pray, our hearts and the hearts of our fellow human beings will remain closed, unable to receive as truth that which our minds know to be true.

So the Torah, in commanding us to continually place “these words” upon our hearts, commands us to remain open to possibility despite this “past trauma,” whether that trauma challenges our faith in God, ourselves, or humanity. To place these words upon our hearts is an assertion of faith that, because “there is no person whose heart is never open,” our past need not dictate our future. Despite our history—and our all-too-painful experience of ourselves and our world—we trust that our (and our fellow humans’) habitual ways of thinking, feeling, and acting will not govern us forever. Our usually closed hearts will indeed open, and the things we just can’t seem to “get” will one day take root and blossom within. To love God, then, is not simply to strive to better know God through words of Torah. To love God is to adopt a particular stance: that despite previous distance, greater closeness with God is always possible.

Each one of us has likely placed upon our hearts particular words of Torah that somehow cannot seem to find their way in. There are teachings that we as a people cannot seem to master, lessons that humanity cannot seem to learn. When the heart is closed, the imagination must take over. We place these words upon our heretofore-closed hearts yet again, day after day, imagining that perhaps today there will be a moment of openness and the words will sink in. Petah libi betoratekha—open my heart with Your Torah—for there is no person whose heart is never open.

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

[1]   I am indebted to my dear friend Shirah Zeller (��”l), a gifted psychoanalyst and teacher of Torah, for this insight.

This handoff between the generations plays a central role in Parashat �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���. Moses, the lingering elder of the generation past, implores the Israelites to hold onto the Torah and mitzvot that he has spent his life attempting to impress upon their parents. He hopes that this new crop will embrace the tenets of Torah and then instill them in future generations. It is in our parashah that Moses recites the Shema, with its famous instruction: “ושננתם לבנך—And you shall teach them to your children” (Deut. 6:7).

As the leader who delivered the commandments and facilitated the miracles, Moses is the obvious person to deliver this appeal. But while Moses certainly stands tall as a leader and lawgiver, on what grounds is he the right person to be offering parental advice? Where are Moses’s children anyway?

We briefly meet Moses’s two sons, Gershom and Eliezer, back in Exodus (Exodus 2:22; 18:2–7). The sons seemingly miss the entire ordeal in Egypt and the journey through the sea, as their grandfather Jethro (Yitro) only brings them to reunite with Moses once the Israelites are already at the foot of Mount Sinai. Upon their arrival, Moses ignores his sons completely (though he gives his father-in-law a warm welcome), and then we never hear of them again. Fully engulfed in his role as leader, Moses fails to achieve even a morsel of work-life balance, and his estrangement from his sons makes them strangers in the Jewish narrative. Does Moses even care?

Fast forward to our parashah. �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ��� opens with Moses restating God’s rejection of his plea to enter the Land of Israel, and God’s reminder to empower Joshua as he assumes his leadership role. In contrast with his brother Aaron who bestows the priesthood to his progeny, Moses is succeeded by Joshua, not his own sons. The Book of Legends (Sefer Ha-aggadah) imagines Moses saying to Joshua: “I am jealous of you, Joshua. Would that my children were like you. Would that all of Israel were like you” (Bialik and Ravnitzky 101). Is Moses just gushing over Joshua’s greatness, or might this imagined remark actually carry a sense of loss and regret?

Moses had requested an heir back in Parashat Pineḥas, immediately after the daughters of Zelophehad—Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah—bravely and successfully petitioned their case for inheriting their father’s land before Moses. What prompts Moses’s sudden concern with his own succession? Midrash Tanhuma offers one suggestion:

What reason did [Moses] have to request this need after the ordering of inheritance? It is simply that since he saw the daughters of Zelophehad inherit the properties of their father, Moses said, ‘See it is the time for me to claim my needs. If daughters inherit, it is [also] proper for my sons to inherit my glory.’ The Holy Blessed One said to him (in Prov. 27:18), “‘The one who tends a fig tree will enjoy its fruit.’ Your sons sat [with] their own [concerns] and were not involved with Torah [study]. It is [more] appropriate that Joshua, who served you, serve Israel and not lose his compensation.” (Midrash Tanhuma, Pineḥas 11)

It’s worth noting that the daughters of Zelophehad actually moved Moses to get his own estate in order, but how painful it must have been for Moses to hear God tell him that his own children are unworthy of succeeding him. God blames his sons for their deficiencies, but Moses himself argues in our parashah that it is a parent’s job to instruct their children. I imagine that in this midrash, Moses hears God’s words not just as an indictment of his sons, but also of Moses as a parent.

Now we better understand Moses’s preoccupation in his waning days with teaching Torah to one’s children. Perhaps Moses offers himself as a parental cautionary tale—not only will the Israelites disappoint God if they stray from the mitzvot, but they will disappoint themselves if they fail at their sacred parental responsibilities.

Lest we reread Moses’s speeches in total gloom, another familiar passage in our parashah offers some comfort. Moments after Moses speaks the Shema and Veahavta, with its instruction of ושננתם לבנך, he then says:

When, in time to come, your children ask you, ‘What mean the decrees, laws, and rules that our God Adonai has enjoined upon you?’ you shall say to your children, ‘We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt and Adonai freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand . . . ’ (Deut. 6:20–21)

This, of course, provides the script for engaging with the “Wise Child” in the Haggadah. What leads Moses to consider the scenario of “When, in time to come, your children ask you”?

Here’s what I’d like to imagine: In Moses’s waning days, it pains him to realize that he has neglected his parental duties and cannot bequeath to his sons the mantle of Jewish leadership. As this realization sinks in, Moses urges others to do better with their children, but he also commits to mending his relationship with his own. He approaches their tent, perhaps for the very first time. For a man who has stood face-to-face with God, he finds himself surprisingly uncomfortable as he sits before his own sons, never having paid close attention to their dark inquisitive eyes and their furrowed brows that resemble his own. After a long silence, they speak up: “Abba, what are all of these laws and rules that God has given you?” Moses’s nerves calm as his whole face shifts into a grin. It isn’t too late. “My children,” he begins. “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt. Here’s what happened . . . ”

The wicked child becomes the wise child when the parent offers their care and attention. Love for the Jewish tradition (or for Neil Young) does not get passed down epigenetically. If there’s any hope of entrusting these precious heirlooms, it must come from intentional quality time. It’s never too late to get close. Join me in imagining that Moses offers the case of “When, in time to come, your children ask you”not only as a hypothetical future scenario, but also as a sweet and recent memory.

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

In many ways, Sefer Devarim is an extensive exercise in understanding the relationship between history and memory. In it, Moshe, standing on the precipice of death, and the new generation of B’nei Yisrael, standing on the precipice of the land of Israel, have their final encounter, much of which is Moshe retelling the stories of the generation that left Mitzrayim. B’nei Yisrael are about to enter a major moment of transition: from nomads to farmers; from being solely dependent on God to being self-sufficient; from being led by Moshe to being led by Yehoshua. They need to know where they are coming from to be prepared for where they are going. Ostensibly, this is the purpose of Moshe’s history lesson.

However, Moshe’s recollection is striking for its inaccuracies. If you line up the stories in Shemot and Bamidbar with Moshe’s narrative in Devarim, the two often only have a passing resemblance to each other. But how can the people learn from their past if they receive a skewed version of it? What do we make of the fact that Moshe tells the people that it was their fault that he is not entering the land when in fact it was he who struck the rock? How do Moshe’s embellishments of the story of Amalek inform the way we see the version of the story recorded in Shemot? Shouldn’t Moshe be able to give over a precise version of the Ten Commandments, not a subtly revised one? And, perhaps most famously, how can Moshe tell the people shamor—keep Shabbat and sanctify it—when the version in Exodus clearly says �������ǰ�—remember Shabbat and sanctify it?

The medieval French commentator Hizkuni explains that the differences between Shemot and Devarim arise because of differences in circumstance. He writes that the first set of tablets was given to the first generation in a specific place at a specific time. At that moment, a people that had known nothing but oppression needed to hear about the importance of remembrance and Shabbat. This was a group that needed to hear about what they could do, rather than only about what they could not. They needed to hear about the vastness of the universe, and the ways they could build a relationship with God. Emerging from a reality of restrictions, they needed the expansiveness of positive mitzvot and their connection to the creation of the world. They needed to learn that they could simply be still for a day, and the world would not end.

However, in Devarim, 40 years have since passed. This generation is not the one that left Mitzrayim, but they are intimately acquainted with the importance of remembrance. They have heard their parents’ stories of slavery and Moshe’s reflections on the last 40 years. They know about the sins that have led to communal destruction and the prayers that have led to collective reward. This is not a generation that needs to be commanded to remember. Instead, as Hizkuni says, they need to be taught about keeping and conserving. As they stand on the edge of the Jordan, and prepare to enter the land of Israel, they are confronted by a host of new choices. After entering the land, they will be laboring on it every day, and so they need to be told to stop, if only so that the people who work for them have the chance to do so as well. Each generation receives the tablets that they need at that moment.

It seems appropriate that this moment of transitioning from remembering to keeping should come to us each year on Shabbat Nahamu, the Shabbat that follows Tishah Be’av. We are at a similarly transitional moment in the Jewish calendar. We have spent three weeks, then nine days, and then 25 hours immersed in the act of remembrance. We lived in dark moments, like the members of B’nei Yisrael who were slaves in Mitzrayim. We remembered the breaking of the first set of tablets, the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, the Spanish Inquisition, and the times when we have allowed baseless hatred to overtake our community. We have mourned and we have promised that we will remember.

But now, we have moved past that moment. We have entered the seven weeks of comfort leading up to Rosh Hashanah. At this moment, we are like B’nei Yisrael, standing on the border between the desert and Canaan. We have the memories of the past year that are still with us, both good and bad. We are not quite ready to enter the next stage, yet we can see it in front of us. And at this moment, our tradition teaches us to find comfort, not because we should erase or forget what came before, but because there is always the potential for rebuilding in a moment of destruction. That is how we find the hope that is required for us to actually do. Remembrance is crucial, for itself, but also for its ability to inform the way we approach doing, in defining the kind of life we want to live. We have to find and keep the things that are most important to us, which will enable us to become better versions of ourselves. Our past informs our future, but it cannot determine it. That’s for us to decide.

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

The themes of this Shabbat mirror the process of moving through grief, from the devastation characterized by Tishah Be’av to the comfort expressed by Shabbat Nahamu, and eventually to the renewal hoped for on Rosh Hashanah. When the Temple stood, its service had provided a mechanism to mark, engage, and move through life’s experiences, whether joyful or painful. Not only was the destruction of the Temple a calamity; it was also the destruction of the system for coping with calamities, the system for grieving and offering and receiving comfort. The Jewish people were at a loss for how to heal from this disaster and yet, somehow, they managed to do so. 

The early rabbinic text Avot De’Rabbi Natan shares a story of healing and resiliency in the aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple. The story begins, “Once, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai left Jerusalem, and Rabbi Joshua followed after him. Rabbi Joshua saw the Holy Temple destroyed, and he lamented: ‘Woe to us, for this is destroyed—the place where all of Israel’s sins are forgiven!^’�ĝ The Temple was the place where the people would bring sacrifices to mark significant moments in their lives and to experience spiritual transformation—including when they sinned and sought an intangible sense of forgiveness or atonement. This ritual was a way of spiritually cleansing themselves and starting afresh. Rabbi Joshua feared that without this ritual, they would feel a perpetual sense of guilt and shame and carry with them feelings of sadness and incompletion.

Rabban Yohanan replied, “My child, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? Acts of kindness, as it says, ‘For I desire kindness, not a well-being offering’�ĝ (Psalm 89:3). Rather than feeling bereft, Rabban Yohanan expressed hope, vision, and purpose.

These two individuals had experienced the same loss but each had his own unique process of grieving. The text does not tell us Rabbi Joshua’s response to his teacher’s words. Was he comforted? Was he angered? Did he feel ignored or misunderstood? We know from other midrashim that Rabban Yohanan and his students, including Rabbi Joshua, established a yeshiva in Yavneh (BT Gittin 56b) and constructed a new form of Judaism that provided radically different ways to structure a meaningful life and to cope with existential crises, including coping with one’s own wrong-doing and regret. A lesson of this text is to make space for the multiplicity of conflicting responses to crisis. The hope of the text is that emotional and spiritual healing are possible.

The Torah reading of Shabbat Nahamu, Parashat �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���, also points us toward a teaching about healing from brokenness when the system for coping itself breaks down. Twice our Torah portion refers to how the Ten Commandments were engraved on tablets (Deut. 4:12–13, 5:19). These tablets are the subject of a more in-depth narrative in other parts of the Torah: Moses descends the mountain with the tablets containing the Ten Commandments and sees the people worshipping a golden calf they have built in his absence. He is shocked and smashes the tablets. Eventually, God summons him back up the mountain and he receives a second set of tablets, which he delivers intact to the Israelites.

The Midrash teaches us that both sets of tablets, the broken and the whole, are holy and worthy of our attention and respect. Based on a verse in next week’s parashah (Deut. 10:2), Rabbi Yosef taught that “both the tablets and the fragments of the tablets were deposited in the Ark” (BT Bava Batra 14b; also see BT Berakhot 8b). The Israelites literally carry the two sets with them, recognizing that both were sources for guidance and inspiration in their lives. 

Imagining the whole tablets and the broken shards side by side in the Ark and thinking of them as metaphors for our spiritual lives, one can wonder what breaks a person’s sense of meaning, and how one might reconstruct it.

Rabbi Harold Kushner, in a talk to chaplains at Memorial Sloane Kettering Hospital in 1993, taught another midrash from Avot De’Rabbi Natan about the breaking of the tablets. According to the Midrash, Moses “looked and saw that the writing was flying off the tablets, and he said: ‘How can I give these tablets to Israel?’ For there is nothing on them! So instead, I will take ahold of them and smash them!”

In Kushner’s interpretation of this midrash, it is at this point that Moses could not carry the stones anymore, and they fell from his hands and shattered. The midrash, Kushner explained, is about how a sense of purpose in a person’s life is crucial for their resiliency: “When there is a purpose to what you are doing, you can do things which are too hard for you. When there is a sense of futility, when you’re not sure you’re doing any good, even a doable task becomes too hard. So one of the things we have to do to avoid burnout is to redefine success” (“Religious Resources for Healing,” The Caregiver Journal 10:3 [1993]).

Moses experienced moral distress. A concept originally developed within the nursing profession, moral distress occurs “when one knows the right thing to do, but institutional constraints make it nearly impossible to pursue the right course of action” (Andrew Jameton. Nursing Practice: The Ethical Issues [Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1984], 6). Moses’s distress was also vocational; what he had learned about how to lead people, what to teach them, and how to help better their lives no longer seemed true, or even possible. Indeed, according to the Midrash, when he saw the people dancing around the Golden Calf, he asked himself, “How can I give them these commandments?!” because he knew that they would initially be in violation of the commandment not to worship idols. Moses needed to break and replace not only the literal stones of the tablets, but also his own sense of purpose as a leader.

The Torah teaches that Moses ascended the mountain a second time. Whereas the first tablets were prepared before his arrival—in fact, created by God before the Creation of the world, according to the Midrash—the second tablets required Moses’s involvement in their creation. He carved the stones and wrote the words (Exod. 34:27–28).

In order to reconstruct a sense of purpose, Moses needed to be able and willing to start again and to conduct himself differently—just as Rabban Yohanan and Rabbi Joshua needed to imagine different ways of relating to God and one another. Shabbat Nahamu provides comfort in part by reminding us of the flexibility of the human spirit to experience real healing and transformation in new ways.

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

Commentators suggest a variety of reasons for God’s refusal to let Moses enter the Land, including his striking of the rock at the waters of Meribah (Num. 20:9–12, Rashi); his impetuous rebuke of his people in this episode (ibid., Rambam); and his behavior in the dispatch of spies to the Land of Israel (Num. 13, Abarbanel). However, we might take a step back to explore the question of why Moses should not have entered the Land despite everything he did in the service of God and his people.

Let us consider for a moment Moses’s own biography: he went from being a member of the Egyptian royal house, unaware of his true origins yet not entirely comfortable with his supposed family’s oppression of another people, to an exiled prince resigned to a simpler life in the desert, and then on to become a liberator, teacher, and preacher to his people. Moreover, Moses came to his leadership role somewhat begrudgingly, humbly expressing at the outset of the Exodus saga that he was aral sefatayim, “deficient of speech,” (Exod. 6:12) and might not be suited to the monumental task of speaking to the ruler of a great civilization or navigating an unwieldy group of recently freed slaves through an unforgiving desert.

With this, we must consider how different experiences, characteristics, and skills can equip people for different forms and contexts of leadership. It is difficult to deny that Moses’s leadership as conveyed to us in the biblical narrative is anything short of awe-inspiring, whether in relation to the personal impediments he overcame, the life of luxury he gave up, or the sheer magnitude of the task of guiding a fractious multitude through the desert. However, different challenges call for different solutions depending on their context and, by extension, demand different sorts of people to effectively face particular tests and trials.

As Jews, we believe that Moshe Rabbenu, Moses our teacher, was alone in his ability to meet the task of guiding the people of Israel through the desert and imparting the morality and rituals of the Torah on a people who remained otherwise ignorant of such matters as they emerged from the shadow of subjugation. However, the skills and abilities that made him so unparalleled in this regard were not necessarily transferable to the baser and more brutal work of generals and politicians that would be unavoidable following the people’s entry into the Holy Land.

One might be tempted to ask why, despite this conclusion, Moses couldn’t simply enter the Land as a private citizen, conceding his all-powerful leadership roles for a simpler life, like the Roman dictator Cincinnatus who chose to forgo absolute power in favor of the quiet existence of a farmer. To answer this, we can look to the 17th century commentator Or Hahayyim, who argues that implicit in Moses’s request for entry was a willingness to resign from his position of leadership. However, the Or Hahayyim contends, Moses’s particular leadership role was so immense and so unique that resigning from it would essentially be impossible. We can extrapolate further that Moses’s very presence was so overarching for the people in his charge that it would always serve as a challenge to the authority of Moses’s successor, Joshua, whatever Moses intended.

Considering that both Moses’s essence and experience precluded his entry into the Land as the Children of Israel transitioned to the reality of life in their new land, leads us back to the first word and title of this parashah, �ղ�’e��-�󲹲ԲԲ���. This word is directly related to hen, grace, and Rashi points out that all forms of the connected verb hanan denote requests for an “ex gratia gift,” meaning one that is not in return for any specific good deeds or worthy action. In addition to this, earlier in the Torah we see that one of the thirteen attributes of God is hanun, gracious. We might then assume that a more gracious response to Moses’s late-in-life request would be to allow him to enter the Land rather than a curt refusal paired with a command to “never speak to Me of this matter again!” (Deut. 3:24).

However, God’s true grace here may be in recognizing that Moses could not enter the Land, both because of the potential negative impact it could have on his people’s survival and cohesion in their new land, and because Moses was just as ill-suited to the upcoming tasks of conquest and governance as his persona was indomitable and irreplaceable in the eyes of his people. In telling Moses to immediately cease discussion of this request, God may merely have been shifting Moses’s gaze inward, pushing him to see what perhaps he already knew—that both in spite and because of his deeds and status as the unparalleled leader of the people, he could not, for their sake, join them in this new chapter in their collective history.

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

The prophet sees his role—and gift—as the ability “to speak timely words to the weary.” He offers himself as a role model of resilience and courage, not denying the daunting nature of the task ahead, but reminding the people that he himself “did not run away.” Comfort and strength are to be found in unity (“Let us stand up together!”), and in returning to the foundations of the covenant with God (“Look to the rock from which you were hewn, the quarry from which you were dug; look back to Abraham your father and Sarah who gave birth to you”).

Food for thought:

• When in your life has weariness or despair caused you to miss signs of hope?
• What solutions and opportunities for repair are we as a society missing?
• What opportunities do you have to comfort and strengthen others, offering timely words or serving as a role model? 

Listen to the haftarah brought to life as it is declaimed in English by renowned actor Ronald Guttman by .