New Trumpets for a New Generation

In this week’s parsha, the Torah introduces a mitzvah that at first glance seems merely technical: “עשה לך שתי חצוצרות כסף” (“Make for yourself two silver trumpets” ( במדבר י:ב).  These trumpets were not decorative. They were functional. They were the communication system of Klal Yisrael in the desert. What does this mean? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom elaborates:

When Moshe Rabbeinu needed to gather the people, a tekiah was sounded. When it was time to travel, a teruah was blown. Different sounds carried different messages.

The Jewish people camped around the Mishkan in a vast desert. There were no telephones, no radios, no text messages. The silver trumpets unified the nation. They told the people when to assemble, when to travel, when to prepare for battle, when to celebrate and when to move forward. These chatzotzrot were the instruments through which Moshe communicated direction to the nation.

But Chazal notice something extraordinary. The Torah says “עשה לך” — “Make for yourself.” And the Gemara teaches that these particular trumpets belonged uniquely to Moshe Rabbeinu. The Aron, the Menorah, the Mizbe’ach — all the holy vessels of the Mishkan continued for generations. Shlomo HaMelech still used many of them centuries later. But not the trumpets. Every generation needed new trumpets. Why? What is the Torah teaching us?

The Eternal Torah and the Changing World

Rav Yechezkel Abramsky explained a profound idea. The essence of Torah never changes. The Torah is eternal. The Rambam writes that if a prophet would arise and claim that one mitzvah has changed — even one detail — that prophet is false. Torah is immutable. We believe with complete faith: “זאת התורה לא תהא מוחלפת” (“This Torah will never be exchanged.”) The principles of Torah are eternal truth. But Rav Abramsky explained that while the Torah itself never changes, the way Torah is transmitted sometimes must change. The “trumpets” change. The method of communication changes. The needs of the generation change. Reality changes. This is why great Torah leaders throughout history understood that in order to bring Jews closer to Torah, they sometimes needed new chatzotzrot — new ways of reaching the Jewish people. Not a new Torah, but new trumpets.

Boaz and the Sanctification of Everyday Life

Chazal connect this idea to an extraordinary scene in Megillat Rut. Boaz walks into the field and greets his workers: “ה׳ עמכם” (“Hashem be with you.”) and they answer: “יברכך ה׳” (“May Hashem bless you.”).

The Mishnah asks: Why was Boaz using the Name of Hashem in ordinary greeting? Would that not appear disrespectful? Would that not diminish reverence for the Divine Name? And Chazal answer: “עת לעשות לה׳” (“There are times when action must be taken for Hashem.”)  There are moments in history when leadership must respond to the spiritual needs of the generation. Boaz understood that his generation needed something. The Jewish people needed to feel the presence of Hashem not only in the Beit HaMikdash, not only in formal prayer, but in everyday life. In the marketplace. In the fields. At work. In ordinary conversation.

So Boaz introduced a new “trumpet.” He taught people to greet one another with awareness of Hashem. Not because Torah changed, but because the generation needed a different language of connection.

Kohelet and the Wisdom of Timing

Shlomo HaMelech writes in Kohelet: “לכל זמן ועת לכל חפץ תחת השמים” (“Everything has its season, and every matter has its appointed time beneath the heavens.”) There is:

●     A time to speak, a time to remain silent

●     A time for wa, a time for peace

●     A time to build, a time to rebuild

The eternal values remain the same, but wise leadership understands timing. And throughout Jewish history, our greatest leaders recognized moments when the “trumpets” needed to sound differently.

First Example: Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and the Mishnah

For centuries, Torah Sheba’al Peh was not written down. A student learned directly from a rebbe. Torah was transmitted personally. Living Torah. Breathing Torah. Not just information, but character, humility, fear of Heaven, and spiritual warmth.

Then came the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Exile spread the Jewish people across the world. Roman persecution intensified. Torah was in danger of being forgotten. And Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi made a revolutionary decision: He wrote down the Mishnah.

In one sense, this violated the longstanding tradition against writing Torah Shebe’al Peh. But Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi understood: If we continue using the old trumpets, Torah may be lost. The Torah itself would remain eternal but the transmission system needed to change. And because of that courageous decision, Torah survived. From the Mishnah came the Gemara. Then Rashi. Then Tosafot. Then Rambam. Then Shulchan Aruch. The entire world of Torah learning we know today grew from that decision—a new trumpet for a new generation.

Second Example: Paying Rabbanim and Teachers

The Rambam writes that Torah should not be taught for money. Ideally, Torah leaders supported themselves independently. Teaching Torah was never meant to become a profession for personal gain. But centuries later, Rav Yosef Karo — the author of the Shulchan Aruch — recognized a new reality. Communities were becoming more complex. The demands on rabbanim increased. If Torah teachers could not dedicate themselves fully to Torah leadership, Torah itself would weaken. And therefore a new model emerged:

Communities would support rabbanim, roshei yeshiva, and dayanim. Again, this was not a change in Torah but a change in the “trumpets.” A new structure for a new reality. And because of that decision, Torah institutions flourished across the Jewish world.

Third Example: Rav Kook and Ahavat Yisrael

Perhaps one of the most dramatic examples came in the previous century with Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook. In Europe, Jews who abandoned Torah were often seen as actively fighting against Judaism. They promoted assimilation. They opposed traditional observance. They weakened Jewish commitment.

But Rav Kook arrived in Eretz Yisrael and saw something different. He saw Jews who were not observant… yet they were draining swamps, building farms, reviving Hebrew, defending Jewish lives and rebuilding the Land of Israel.

Rav Kook said: We must relate to them differently. Not because Torah changed. Not because mitzvot changed. But because history changed. Reality changed. The generation required a new trumpet, a new language, a new way of connecting Jews to one another and to redemption.

This approach was controversial. But so was Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s innovation. So was Rav Yosef Karo’s. True leadership often requires courage.

Our Generation’s Trumpets

And now we come to our own generation. We are living through extraordinary times. For nearly 2,000 years Jews dreamed of returning to Eretz Yisrael. Today we are witnessing Kibbutz Galuyot, the rebuilding of Jewish sovereignty, the flourishing of the Land, the revival of Hebrew and the protection of Jewish life by Jewish soldiers

We are living inside pages of Tanach. And yet our generation is deeply fragmented: Religious and secular, right and left, Israeli and Diaspora--different communities, different languages, different fears.

And perhaps the lesson of the silver trumpets is this: We must learn how to call Jews together. The purpose of the trumpets was not division. It was unity: to gather the nation around a shared mission.

Moshe Rabbeinu used the trumpets to move Klal Yisrael toward the Mishkan — toward the presence of Hashem. That remains our challenge. How do we speak to fellow Jews? How do we inspire? How do we communicate Torah in a language the next generation can hear? Not watered-down Torah, nNot compromised Torah—but eternal Torah communicated with wisdom, sensitivity, and love.

The Torah gives the trumpets another role as well. Not only communication. Not only gathering the people. The trumpets were also instruments of spiritual awakening. The Torah says: “וְכִי תָבֹאוּ מִלְחָמָה בְּאַרְצְכֶם עַל־הַצַר הַצֹּרֵר אֶתְכֶם וַהֲרֵעֹתֶם בַּחֲצֹצְרֹת וְנִזְכַּרְתֶּם לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם וְנוֹשַׁעְתֶּם מֵאֹיְבֵיכֶם” (“When you wage war in your Land against an enemy who oppresses you, you shall sound a teruah with the trumpets, and you shall be remembered before Hashem your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.”).

Notice something remarkable. The Torah does not say: “Strengthen your weapons.” It says:  “Sound the trumpets.” Why? Because the essential battle is spiritual before it is military. The Rambam writes in Hilchot Ta’aniyot that when suffering or war comes upon the Jewish people, there is a positive mitzvah to cry out and sound the trumpets. Why? Because the purpose is to awaken the people to teshuvah. The Rambam explains that when Jews cry out before Hashem, they recognize that events are not random: “Everyone realizes that the evil occurred because of their deeds… and this will cause the trouble to be removed.” The trumpets were therefore not merely military instruments. They were spiritual alarms—a wake-up call, a reminder that Jewish survival ultimately depends not only on armies, but on our relationship with Hashem. And perhaps this message has never been more relevant than in our own generation.

The Challenge of Communication

Sometimes religious Jews become frustrated. “How can they not understand?” “How can they not see?” But every generation requires different language, different methods, different pathways. Some Jews connect through learning. Others through kindness. Others through Israel. Others through history. Others through community. Others through acts of courage.

The Torah does not change. But the trumpet may. And perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons for parents, educators, rabbis, and leaders. You cannot always speak to this generation the same way previous generations were addressed. You must understand the soul of the generation. You must understand its struggles, its distractions, its fears, its opportunities—and then sound the trumpet clearly.

One might ask: How can anyone speak about Aliyah during dangerous times? How can Jews consider moving to Israel precisely when there is war, terror, uncertainty, and fear? But perhaps the parsha itself answers that question. Immediately after the discussion of the trumpets, the Torah describes the complaints of the Jewish people in the desert: “וַיְהִי הָעָם כְּמִתְאֹנְנִים” (“The people were like complainers.”) Rashi explains that they complained about the hardships of the journey toward Eretz Yisrael.

Earlier, the Torah says: “וַיִּסְעוּ מֵהַר ה׳ דֶּרֶךְ שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים” (“They traveled from the Mountain of Hashem a three-day journey.”). Rashi explains something astonishing: Hashem compressed a three-day journey into one day because He wanted to bring the Jewish people into Eretz Yisrael immediately.

The Da’at Zekenim explains that beneath the complaints was a deeper issue: Fear. Fear of war, fear of what awaited them in the Land, a lack of emunah.

The Chiddushei HaRim asks a powerful question: If Hashem wanted to bring them quickly into Eretz Yisrael, why make the journey difficult at all? And he answers with a profound principle: It is impossible to acquire Eretz Yisrael without suffering.

The Gemara says: “שלוש מתנות טובות נתן הקב״ה לישראל וכולן לא נתנן אלא על ידי יסורין” (“Three precious gifts were given to Israel only through suffering.”) And one of them is Eretz Yisrael. Hashem was actually trying to shorten the suffering.  Had the Jewish people accepted the temporary hardship with love and faith, they would have entered the Land immediately. But instead they complained—and that ultimately led to the sin of the spies, the rejection of the Land, and forty years in the wilderness. Sometimes the difference between redemption and delay is the willingness to endure temporary discomfort for eternal gain.

Aliyah and the Call of the Trumpets

There is another dimension here as well. The trumpets were used when it was time for Klal Yisrael to journey> to move forward, to leave the comfort of one encampment and continue toward the Promised Land.

Sometimes Jews become spiritually comfortable in exile. But the trumpets remind us: Judaism is a journey. History is moving. Hashem is calling Am Yisrael forward—toward redemption, toward responsibility, toward Eretz Yisrael and toward national destiny.

Every generation hears that call differently. For one Jew it may come through Torah learning. For another through antisemitism. For another through love of Israel. For another through children and grandchildren. But the call is sounding. The question is whether we are listening.

Too often in Jewish history, we have resisted difficult transitions. We prefer comfort, familiarity, security, predictability. But Jewish history teaches again and again: “No pain, no gain.” Growth requires sacrifice. Redemption requires courage. Returning home requires faith. And perhaps the trumpets of our generation are calling us not merely to survive Jewish history — but to participate in it.  Perhaps this also explains Moshe Rabbeinu’s extraordinary plea to Yitro. Moshe says: “נֹסְעִים אֲנַחְנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר אָמַר ה׳ אֹתוֹ אֶתֵּן לָכֶם לְכָה אִתָּנוּ וְהֵטַבְנוּ לָךְ (“We are traveling to the place that Hashem promised to give us. Come with us and we will do good to you.”) Yitro hesitates. The commentators suggest many reasons: Fear of leaving familiar surroundings, concern about livelihood, concern for family, fear of war and fear of uncertainty

How contemporary those fears sound. They are the same concerns many Jews still express today. But Moshe continues urging him. Why? Because Moshe understood something fundamental: Living in Eretz Yisrael is not merely about convenience. It is about destiny. One commentary explains that Moshe was telling Yitro: “If you come with us, your very presence will create a Kiddush Hashem. Others will be inspired by your courage and commitment.” Sometimes the greatest inspiration comes not from speeches — but from action. From Jews willing to journey toward the future of the Jewish people despite uncertainty.

Conclusion

The silver trumpets teach us something profound. The Torah is eternal. But every generation requires leaders who know how to communicate eternal truths in ways the generation can hear. Moshe had his trumpets. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi had his. Rav Yosef Karo had his. Rav Kook had his. May we merit to hear the trumpets of our generation clearly!

The trumpets calling us to a deeper emunah, greater unity, spiritual courage, responsibility for Am Yisrael, and renewed connection to Eretz Yisrael. And may we have the wisdom not to repeat the mistakes of the wilderness generation — not to allow fear, comfort, or hesitation to delay redemption.

May we instead respond with faith, courage, and vision, and merit to see the complete Geulah במהרה בימינו. Amen.

 

Keeping the Flame Alive: Beha'alotecha 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 28 May 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, here.

Sometimes an entire philosophy of religious life can be hidden inside just three words. One such example appears at the beginning of Parshat Beha’alotcha. After commanding Aharon to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, the Torah concludes simply: “Vaya’as ken Aharon”—“And Aharon did so.” Rashi comments: “Lehagid shivcho shel Aharon shelo shinah”—the verse comes to praise Aharon for not deviating from what he had been commanded.

 At first glance, the comment is puzzling. Is this really Aharon’s great praise? Aharon—the first Kohen Gadol, the brother of Moshe, the man renowned for his holiness and love of Am Yisrael—deserves praise simply because he followed instructions? The commentators suggest that hidden within these few words are several enduring lessons.

 The first is offered by the Sfat Emet. Aharon’s greatness was not merely that he lit the Menorah correctly once, but that he maintained the same sense of enthusiasm and devotion every single day. The lighting of the Menorah could easily have become routine. What begins with excitement often becomes habit; what once inspired us can slowly become stale. Yet Aharon approached the mitzvah each day with renewed passion and freshness.

 This challenge is familiar to all of us. The routines of religious life can gradually lose their vitality if performed mechanically. Chazal teach that the words of Torah should feel new each day. Spiritual growth depends not only on commitment, but on the ability to preserve a sense of wonder and meaning within the familiar.

 A second lesson emerges from the tragic background of Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Passion in avodat Hashem is essential, but passion alone is not enough. Nadav and Avihu possessed enormous spiritual yearning, yet their desire led them beyond the boundaries Hashem had set. Aharon’s greatness lay precisely in his discipline—in his ability not to deviate, despite his inner yearning, and to channel devotion within the framework of command.

 Finally, the Alter of Kelm notes that true spiritual greatness is often revealed not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary, consistent acts. Lighting the Menorah was not the most public or glamorous service in the Mishkan. It involved daily preparation, care, and repetition. Yet Aharon understood that holiness is built precisely through those quiet acts performed faithfully over time.

 We often imagine greatness in terms of rare, transformative moments. The Torah reminds us otherwise. A meaningful life is often shaped less by dramatic gestures than by steady dedication: a daily tefillah, a kind word, a small act of responsibility, a mitzvah performed carefully even when no one notices.

 That was the praise of Aharon—shelo shinah. Not merely that he lit the Menorah once, but that he returned each day with the same sense of purpose, discipline and devotion. The greatest spiritual achievements are rarely sudden flashes of inspiration; they are flames tended faithfully over a lifetime.

 Shabbat Shalom!

No Pain, No Gain – A Call to Return and Rebuild

By all accounts, we are living through one of the most difficult chapters in modern Jewish history. The pain is nearly unbearable. Each fallen soldier is not merely a name or a statistic; each is a world lost, a soul extinguished. The collective anguish of our people is overwhelming. And the question must be asked: What can we do? Our member and regular contributor Rabbi Paul Bloom seeks to find an answer to this difficult question.

Some say, “Give in to our enemies’ demands, just so the bloodshed ends.” Others demand, “Fight with greater force and crush our enemies once and for all.” And as usual, the world applies to us a set of standards it uses for no other nation—demanding we show restraint even when under attack by barbaric terrorists. We are left with the inescapable truth: Only Divine intervention can save us.

But how do we merit Divine intervention?

The Shofar of Teshuvah

Parashat Beha’alotcha provides an essential clue:

וְכִֽי־תָבֹ֨אוּ מִלְחָמָ֜ה בְּאַרְצְכֶ֗ם עַל־הַצַּר֙ הַצֹּרֵ֣ר אֶתְכֶ֔ם וַהֲרֵעֹתֶ֖ם בַּחֲצֹצְרֹ֑ת וְנִזְכַּרְתֶּ֗ם לִפְנֵי֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶ֔ם וְנוֹשַׁעְתֶּ֖ם מֵאֹיְבֵיכֶֽם׃

"When you go to war in your land against an enemy who oppresses you, you shall sound a teru'ah on the trumpets, and you shall be remembered before Hashem your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies." (Bamidbar 10:9)

The Rambam codifies this in Hilchot Ta’aniyot (1:1–2):

“It is a positive mitzvah from the Torah to cry out and blow trumpets when trouble comes upon the community… This is one of the paths of repentance.”

The message is clear: Our strength does not lie in military might alone, but in spiritual awakening—prayer, repentance, and the return to God. When the enemy comes to take away our Land, our first and greatest weapon must be the shofar of teshuvah, reminding us that the battle is not only physical but spiritual.

But there is something else, something tangible we can do: Aliyah.

Defeating Our Enemies with Faith and Feet

It may seem counterintuitive to promote moving to Israel in the midst of war and instability, but that is precisely when it matters most. The massive wave of aliyah from the former Soviet Union disrupted the Arab narrative of eventual victory. Every Jew who enters the Land thwarts that narrative again. As some in the Land courageously declare, “For every Jew killed, a thousand Jews should come and build.” We must take up that cry—not just with slogans, but with suitcases.

One might ask: How can we possibly expect people to move to Israel under such dire circumstances? The answer lies in another episode from our parashah.

No Pain, No Gain: The Sin of Complaining

Chapter 11 opens with the tragic episode of Tav’eirah:

וַיְהִ֤י הָעָם֙ כְּמִתְאֹ֣נְנִ֔ים רַ֖ע בְּאׇזְנֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֑ה וַיִּשְׁמַ֤ע יְהֹוָה֙ וַיִּ֣חַר אַפּ֔וֹ וַתִּבְעַר־בָּם֙ אֵ֣שׁ יְהֹוָ֔ה וַתֹּ֖אכַל בִּקְצֵ֥ה הַֽמַּחֲנֶֽה׃

“And the people were like complainers; it was evil in the ears of Hashem.” (Bamidbar 11:1)

Rashi explains they were complaining about the hardships of the journey to Eretz Yisrael. What was Hashem's response? Anger. Why? Because the hardships were a sign of love—Hashem was trying to bring them into the Land quickly, compressing three days of travel into one (Bamidbar 10:33). But instead of seeing the pain as part of the process of redemption, they rejected it—and lost everything.

As Chazal teach:

"Eretz Yisrael is acquired only through suffering." (Berachot 5a)

Rather than accept that pain as part of the price for entering God’s Land, they complained. That moment led to a cascade of failures, including the sin of the spies and the decree to wander in the wilderness for forty years.

The lesson is simple: There is no spiritual reward without spiritual investment. We cannot expect to inherit the Land without struggle. But if we are willing to endure even modest sacrifices—financial uncertainty, language barriers, cultural adaptation—then Hashem will surely assist us and defeat our enemies.

Yitro’s Dilemma: Then and Now

Later in the parashah, we read the dialogue between Moshe and his father-in-law, Chovav (Yitro):

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֗ה לְ֠חֹבָ֠ב בֶּן־רְעוּאֵ֣ל הַמִּדְיָנִי֮ חֹתֵ֣ן מֹשֶׁה֒ נֹסְעִ֣ים ׀ אֲנַ֗חְנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר אָמַ֣ר יְהֹוָ֔ה אֹת֖וֹ אֶתֵּ֣ן לָכֶ֑ם לְכָ֤ה אִתָּ֙נוּ֙ וְהֵטַ֣בְנוּ לָ֔ךְ כִּֽי־יְהֹוָ֥ה דִּבֶּר־ט֖וֹב עַל־יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

"We are journeying to the place of which Hashem said: I will give it to you. Come with us… and we will do good for you." (Bamidbar 10:29)

Yitro declines, citing his homeland, his family, and his possessions. The commentators debate his motives: comfort, health, family, wealth, or a desire to influence others spiritually from afar. Sound familiar?

Moshe responds by insisting: “Do not leave us... and the good that Hashem will do with us, we will share with you.”

Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenberg, in HaKetav VeHaKabbalah, explains that Moshe was saying: Your decision can inspire the world. If a man of your stature leaves behind everything to join us in God’s Land, it will make waves across the nations. This, too, is a powerful Kiddush Hashem.

We must absorb that message today. Every Jew who makes aliyah—despite obstacles—becomes a beacon. Many cite the same excuses Yitro did: comfort, livelihood, family, safety, or religious mission abroad. But none outweigh the sanctity of living in the Land Hashem gave us.

The Call of Our Time

The message of Beha’alotcha is clear: When enemies rise against us, we must not only cry out to Heaven, but rise up on Earth. Aliyah is both a spiritual and strategic response. It is the fulfillment of Hashem’s promise to give us the Land—and a living declaration that we trust in that promise.

Now more than ever is the time. Let us not repeat the mistake of our ancestors at Tav’eirah, who turned back when they should have marched forward. Let us not be like Yitro, content to remain in comfort while others fight for the future of our people.

Let us rise up, beha’alotcha, and ascend together.

“Go with us… for Hashem has spoken good concerning Israel.”  And if we go—together—we will surely see that goodness with our own eyes.

So let us take Moshe's advice and convince your friends and family to the ascend to the place of which the Lord said, "I will give it to you”.

May the memory of our fallen be for a blessing, and may we merit the ultimate victory—of spirit, of nationhood, and of redemption.

Desires and destinations: Beha'alotecha 5785

The troubles, disappointments and disasters that visit the Jewish people on their trek through the Sinai desert begin in this week’s parsha. Moshe announces that “we are traveling now to our ultimate destination—the Land of Israel.” But, deep down in their hearts, the people are not really that anxious to go there. They have in their hearts and minds two options: remain in the desert and live a life of supernatural miracles and there become the dor de’ah—the generation of exclusive intellect and Torah knowledge, or return to Egypt, with all that this radical move would entail, physically and spiritually. 

The Torah will soon detail for us that neither of these options is acceptable. They will complain about the manna that falls from heaven daily and the seeming lack of variety in their meals. They don’t like the water supply, which is never guaranteed to them. They remember the good food that they supposedly had in Egypt.

According to Midrash, only a small minority actually wishes to return to Egypt on a permanent basis. They will press forward with Moshe to reach the promised Land of Israel, but they will do so reluctantly and half-heartedly. This leads inexorably to further rebellion, tragedy and the death of an entire generation – notwithstanding its being a dor de’ah – in the desert of Sinai. Our  parsha is a sad and depressing one, for we already know the end of the story. We can already see that this generation has doomed itself to desolation and destruction. 

Coming to the Land of Israel and its Jewish state, whether as a tourist and most certainly when someone immigrates, requires commitment and enthusiasm. Many who came to Israel over the past century did so  by default, but the country has truly been served and built by those who came with a sense of mission, purpose, happiness and expectation. 

Moshe’s clarion call, that “We are traveling to the place” of our destiny, echoes throughout the Jewish ages. Not all such calls are heard and even fewer are followed. Nevertheless, the call has resonated within the Jewish people throughout its history. It is that call, which  appears in today’s parsha, which is the same call that Moshe proclaimed millennia ago—the guiding motive for the existence of the State of Israel today. 

Just as then in the desert, there are options for Jews today. The many “Egypts” of the world beckon with their seeming allure but also possess great underlying faults and dangers. And there are those who wish to continue to live in a desert that demands nothing from them and contemplate themselves somehow as being a dor de’ah. History has always arisen and smitten these options from the Jewish future.  The long trek begun by Moshe and Israel in this week’s parsha continues. We hope that we are witnessing, at last, its final and successful conclusion. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein        

You can access "A nation of complainers", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah for the same parashah last year, here.

A nation of complainers: Beha'alotecha 5784

A terrible personality trait is that which is possessed by the complainer. It is hard to live with complainers at home, in the workplace, and in the community. In this week’s parsha we are made aware of the dismal consequences of complaining. Rashi points out that the complainers in the desert had no real basis for their complaints. They were just generally dissatisfied, so they complained against Moshe and eventually against God.

 Moshe, in his final oration to the Jewish people in the book of Devarim, will himself complain that the people of Israel are unnecessarily quarrelsome, a bunch of complainers. There is a Jewish joke, more ironic than funny, about three Jewish matrons eating lunch at a restaurant in New York: the waiter approaches them in the middle of their meal and asks them “Is anything alright?” 

Rashi’s interpretation of the lack of justification for complaints in the desert portrays a serious character defect within the Jewish people. They are chronic complainers but, for the vast majority of the time, their grumbles are baseless. The many complaints in the desert follow the usual pattern: food, Moshe’s leadership, the unfairness of life and how hard it is to live up to the role of being the chosen people. 

All through First Temple times we find that the prophets of Israel were barraged with moans about their mission and words. Though their prophecies actually provided the solution to Israel’s troubles, the people asserted that it was they who were the problem. Their unjustified criticisms brought destruction and exile in their wake. 

I am not a mental health professional by any stretch of imagination. Yet my instinct tells me that chronic complainers are not happy with themselves and that they project that dissatisfaction outwards on events and on people who are not the cause of their original dissatisfaction. 

There is something deep within us that requires self-justification and self-empowerment.  When that need is fulfilled, we are happy, and optimistic. When that ingredient in our psyche is absent, we carp, we become sad and sometimes destructive. We recite daily in our morning prayers how fortunate we are to be the special people that God has chosen to lead the world in service to Him. We may all recite that prayer—but how many of us are really convinced in our heart of hearts of its truth? 

The rabbis of the Talmud harshly disdained the chronic complainer: “Is it not sufficient for you that you are alive?” Nothing is perfect in life, but that is no justification for complaining. We are bidden to deal with problems to the extent that we can—not to dwell on them and let them fester within our heart. We have to seek an inner peace that will allow us an optimistic attitude and an avoidance of complaints. Our parents, schools and society should somehow concentrate on achieving this goal with our coming generations.

 Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein