Why Couldn’t Moshe Enter the Land?

Parashat Chukat contains one of the greatest mysteries in the entire Torah. Moshe Rabbeinu—the greatest leader the Jewish people have ever known—is informed that he will not lead the nation into Eretz Yisrael. Few questions have occupied the commentators more intensely. Moshe brought the Torah down from Har Sinai. He interceded for the nation after the sin of the Golden Calf. He guided the Jewish people through every crisis of the wilderness. Yet, just as they stand at the threshold of the Promised Land, he is told that his journey will end. “Why?” asks our member Rabbi Paul Bloom.

The Torah's language is strikingly severe. Moshe is told that he failed to sanctify Hashem's Name properly and that he will therefore not bring the people into the Land. But what exactly was his sin? The commentators struggle to identify it. The Midrash and later commentators offer numerous explanations. The Abarbanel famously lists eleven different approaches, concluding that no consensus exists.

Perhaps the reason for this lack of agreement is that the Torah's primary message is not the precise nature of Moshe's error. Rather, it is teaching us something far deeper about leadership, faith, and the transition from one stage of Jewish history to another.

Moshe Was Not Being Punished

The Meshech Chochmah offers a remarkable perspective. He suggests that Moshe's exclusion from the Land was not fundamentally a punishment at all. Moshe's entire mission was to bring the Jewish people close to Hashem. Had he completed the conquest and settlement of the Land, his stature among the nation would have become unparalleled. The danger was that future generations might begin to view him as more than human—as a semi-divine figure whose powers transcended ordinary human limitations. The Torah therefore teaches a crucial lesson: even Moshe Rabbeinu was mortal.

Judaism reveres great leaders. We honor Torah scholars, prophets, and tzaddikim. But we never worship them. We do not believe they possess independent supernatural powers. We do not consider them infallible. Ultimate authority belongs only to Hashem. By recording Moshe's mistake—even one so subtle that the greatest commentators struggle to define it precisely—the Torah reminds us that even the greatest human being remains human.

This lesson has profound relevance in every generation. We must respect our leaders, learn from them, and seek their guidance. At the same time, our faith must always be directed toward Hashem rather than toward any individual, no matter how great.

The Missing Thirty-Eight Years

A second perspective emerges from the Netziv and other commentators. At the beginning of parashat Chukat, Rashi notes that the Torah suddenly jumps from the second year after the Exodus to the fortieth year. Nearly thirty-eight years disappear from the narrative.

Those years represented a period of waiting. The generation that left Egypt gradually passed away, while a new generation grew up in the wilderness learning Torah from Moshe and Aharon. Now, in the fortieth year, the Jewish people stand on the eastern bank of the Jordan River opposite Jericho, preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. Something dramatic is about to change.

From Open Miracles to Hidden Miracles

The generation of the wilderness lived in a world of open miracles. The sea split before them. Manna descended from Heaven. Water flowed from Miriam's well. Clouds of Glory protected them. Moshe Rabbeinu was the leader perfectly suited for such a reality. But life in Eretz Yisrael would be different. In the Land, the Jewish people would need to farm, build cities, establish governments, raise armies, and defend themselves. They would no longer live on daily miracles. Instead, they would have to engage fully in the natural world while recognizing that all success ultimately comes from Hashem.

This transition lies at the heart of the episode of Mei Merivah. Hashem instructed Moshe to speak to the rock. The commentators explain that the purpose was not simply to produce water. Rather, the nation was meant to learn that prayer, Torah, and spiritual connection to Hashem would sustain them in their new reality. Instead, Moshe struck the rock and water emerged miraculously. The miracle itself was not the problem. The problem was the message. The people needed to learn that they were entering a new era—an era in which faith would operate through the natural world rather than through constant supernatural intervention.

A New Leader for a New Era

Seen in this light, Moshe's exclusion from the Land takes on a different meaning. Moshe was not the wrong leader. He was the perfect leader for the wilderness. But the next stage of Jewish history required a different kind of leadership.

Yehoshua would lead military campaigns. He would oversee the conquest and settlement of the Land. His leadership reflected the partnership between human effort and Divine assistance that would characterize Jewish life in Eretz Yisrael. The Malbim explains that the issue was not Moshe's greatness. Rather, the needs of the nation had changed. A new era required a new leader.

The Message for Our Generation

This lesson remains deeply relevant today. Throughout Jewish history, and especially in modern Israel, we witness extraordinary achievements accomplished through human courage, ingenuity, and determination. Soldiers defend the nation. Scientists develop life-saving technologies. Farmers make the desert bloom. Pilots undertake missions that seem almost impossible.

A Jew recognizes two truths simultaneously. First, we admire and appreciate the people who accomplish these remarkable feats. Second, we understand that every talent, every success, and every victory ultimately comes from Hashem. These ideas are not contradictory. They are complementary.

The generation entering Eretz Yisrael had to learn how to live in a world where Divine providence would often be hidden beneath natural events. The miracles would continue, but they would appear in a different form.

This is the world in which we still live. Each day we thank Hashem for "ניסיך שבכל יום עמנו"—the miracles that are with us every day. Most are not revealed through splitting seas or water emerging from rocks. They come through ordinary events infused with extraordinary Divine guidance. Parashat Chukat teaches us that true faith is not merely believing in open miracles. It is recognizing Hashem's hand within the natural world, engaging fully in human responsibility while never forgetting the Source of all blessing. That was the challenge facing the generation entering Eretz Yisrael. And it remains our challenge today.

Standing from Afar: Chukat 5786

This piece was first posted on the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 18 June 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Parshat Chukat marks a profound turning point in the story of the Jewish people.

Within a single parashah we encounter the deaths of Miriam and Aharon, and the episode of Mei Merivah, after which Moshe is told that he will not lead the nation into the Land of Israel. More than any other parashah, Chukat represents the transition from one generation of leadership to the next.

Moshe, Aharon and Miriam were not merely great leaders. Chazal teach that they were each associated with one of the miraculous gifts that sustained the nation in the wilderness. The Gemara states: “Three good leaders arose for Israel—Moshe, Aharon and Miriam—and through them came three gifts: the manna, the Clouds of Glory, and the well” (Ta'anit 9a). When Miriam died, the well disappeared. When Aharon died, the Clouds of Glory departed. The obvious question is: why was Miriam specifically associated with water?

Rabbeinu Bachaye points us back to an earlier scene. As an infant, Moshe was placed in a basket upon the Nile, and the Torah tells us:

"Vatetatzav achoto merachok"—“His sister stood from afar to know what would become of him” (Shemot 2:4).

In the merit of that act, Miriam was rewarded with the well that accompanied the Jewish people throughout their forty years in the desert. But the connection runs deeper than reward alone. Rav Soloveitchik explains that Miriam was not merely watching a basket floating on a river. She was watching Jewish destiny unfold. Standing “from afar” means seeing beyond the immediate moment, beyond uncertainty and hardship, toward a larger future that has not yet revealed itself.

This quality characterises Miriam throughout her life. She encouraged hope during the darkest years of Egyptian slavery. She anticipated redemption even before it arrived. She possessed the ability to see possibilities where others saw only obstacles.

Yet there is another lesson as well. For forty years the people benefited from Miriam's well, but many may never have realised that the blessing came in her merit. Only when she was gone did they understand what she had provided.

So often the most significant contributions are the least visible. A word of encouragement, a quiet act of kindness, a moment of attention to another person —these rarely attract headlines, yet they shape lives in ways we may never fully know. The greatness of Miriam lay not only in her vision of the future, but in her willingness to perform a seemingly small act whose consequences would be felt generations later.

"Vatetatzav achoto merachok." Miriam stood from afar. She teaches us to look beyond the present moment, to recognise potential where others see uncertainty, and to remember that even the smallest acts can become sources of blessing far greater than we imagine.

Shabbat Shalom!

Nothing if not mysterious: Chukkat 5785

Life is nothing if not mysterious. The unknown and the uncertain far outweigh what we believe we understand and live by. We often experience events that are unforeseen and sometimes less than fortuitous, jarring our sense of security and serenity. Though this week's parashah dwells on one of the laws of the Torah called a chok—a law without rational explanation—it actually tells us much about human life.

The Torah states explicitly zot chukkat haTorah—this is the law of the Torah regarding all matters of life. Things we think we understand are never fully understood by humans. Every layer of scientific discovery, every fresh advance, reveals for us the specter of untold new mysteries of which we were previously quite unaware. The nature of all life is a chok. So too is the Torah, when we look at life through  the mitzvah and mystery of the parah adumah. 

From the Torah’s viewpoint, we humans have a limited ability to understand and rationalize our existence and purpose. “No living creature can see Me” is interpreted in Jewish tradition to mean “No living creature can ever understand fully the world, nature and logic of the Creator of us all”. Man is doomed to wander in a desert of doubt, without ever being able to find the way on his own. Every frustration and disappointment stems from this hard fact of life. 

Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto in his immortal work, Mesilat Yesharim, compares life to a gigantic maze from which, without direction or guidance, one can never emerge. I remember that once when I visited the grounds of a royal palace in Europe, I tried my luck at entering the maze of tall hedges. Many other people were there with me. Suffice it to say that after 40 minutes none of us had found our way out. Some people were bemused by their predicament. Others were visibly frustrated and almost angry in their inability to escape. Some even panicked. Eventually a guard entered the maze and guided us safely out. 

Rabbi Luzzatto made the point that, if one stands on a high platform that overlooks the maze and maps it out in one’s mind, negotiating the maze then becomes possible, even simple. That high platform is the Torah, which allows us to deal with the maze of life. That is the ultimate lesson of this week’s parsha. Life is a chok—a confusing maze of events, personalities and forces. Why this maze is constructed as it is, why it is even needed, is a chok—something that lies beyond our level of comprehension. But how to negotiate the maze, how to stand on the high platform overlooking and informing about it, that is within our grasp and abilities. And that is really the chukkat haTorah that is granted to us.  

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

 For "Spiritual Mysteries in the Real World", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on parashat Chukkat last year, click here

The Geography of Promise and the Paradigm of Peace

In this post, Rabbi Paul Bloom contemplates the significance of this week’s parshah in both a political and a historical context and explains its pivotal importance in the great scheme of events leading our people from slavery to possession of their promised land.

A Turning Point in the Desert

Parshat Chukkat arrives at a pivotal moment in the Torah’s narrative: the 40th year in the desert. Rashi, commenting on the sudden jump in time in Bamidbar Chapter 20, explains that the Torah skips over 37 years—years during which the first generation, who left Egypt, died in the wilderness. Now, a new generation has emerged: a nation that did not experience Egyptian slavery first-hand but instead grew up surrounded by the Clouds of Glory, sustained by the manna, and learning Torah daily from Moshe and Aharon.

This generation was not shaped by the traumas of Egypt, but by a unique existence under Hashem’s direct protection. Their mission was clear: conquer, settle, and build Eretz Yisrael. Yet before they could cross the Jordan, they had to engage with the peoples of Transjordan, and here the Torah sets down a profound precedent for Jewish conduct in war and peace.

The Geography of Promise: Transjordan’s Place in Eretz Yisrael

To appreciate these events, we must understand Transjordan’s role in Hashem’s promise. In Bereishit 15, Avraham Avinu is promised the land of ten nations. Yet, when Yehoshua leads Israel into Canaan, they conquer only seven. The three nations not conquered—Edom, Ammon, and Moav—all reside east of the Jordan. These lands are not part of the “classic” inheritance of Eretz Yisrael west of the Jordan but are included in the vision of Greater Israel described in later prophetic texts such as Yeshayahu, which foresees their inclusion in the Messianic era.

This geographic nuance becomes vital in Parshat Chukkat, as Bnei Yisrael meet these nations for the first time.

The Paradigm of Peace: Moshe’s Initiative

As Bnei Yisrael approached the territories of these warrior kings in Transjordan, Moshe Rabbeinu offered peace first. He addressed them with respect, saying “נא”—please—and requesting safe passage in exchange for peaceful coexistence, promising not to harm them or take their property. Crucially, both Rashi and the Ran point out that Hashem did not command Moshe to offer peace. This initiative came entirely from Moshe himself, establishing a Torah paradigm: when confronting potential enemies, the first step must always be to offer peace.

Yet, these nations—led by Sichon and Og—responded with hostility and war. They rejected every offer of coexistence. This refusal established a tragic pattern, one that has echoed through Jewish history and is deeply relevant today.

An Eternal Lesson: The Refusal of Peace

From Israel’s earliest wars to the modern state, we have repeatedly extended offers of peaceful coexistence, only to face rejection and violence in return. From 1948 onward, time and again, Arab leadership has refused proposals that would grant mutual recognition and peace, instead choosing war, terror, and incitement.

This dynamic is not just a historical accident—it is described in the Torah itself. The Rambam, in Hilchot Melachim (Laws of Kings, Chapter 6), codifies Moshe’s example into law: before waging war, Israel must always offer peace. But that peace comes with two basic conditions:

1. Acceptance of Jewish sovereignty in Eretz Yisrael, and
   
   
2. Commitment to the moral standards of the Seven Noahide Laws—the universal code prohibiting murder, theft, idolatry, and other fundamental crimes.

If these conditions are accepted, non-Jews can live among us as gerim toshavim, righteous residents. The Torah does not envision a racially exclusive state, but rather a Jewish homeland where those who accept its moral and political framework can live together in peace.

Conquest and the Path to Redemption

Because Moshe’s offers were rejected, wars ensued. Through these battles, Bnei Yisrael conquered Transjordan, which became the inheritance of the tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe. These events were not incidental; they were part of Hashem’s plan, as expressed in Tehillim 136—recited every Shabbat morning—where four verses praise Hashem for striking these kings and giving their lands to Israel.

The Torah’s narrative teaches two simultaneous truths: the moral imperative to pursue peace, and the sobering reality that peace is not always accepted. This tension will persist until the Messianic era, when, as Yeshayahu foretells, even those who once opposed us will come to recognize the Jewish people as a source of blessing, and nations will beat their swords into plowshares.

Conclusion: Our Challenge Today

Parshat Chukkat, then, is more than ancient history—it is a guidebook for navigating conflict, sovereignty, and the pursuit of peace. We must always extend our hand in peace, but stand ready to defend ourselves when peace is rejected. And we must never lose hope that one day, the world will see the Jewish people not as a threat, but as partners in building a just and moral society.

May we merit to see that day soon.

"Death is very good!"

 Much is written on the mysterious operation of the parah adumah, the red heifer whose ashes are so important for the restoration of ritual purity--but much less is said about the condition that triggers a need for the parah adumah in the first place: death. Inspired by an apparently cryptic comment in Rabbi Meir's sefer Torah, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger offers a fascinating insight into a topic that so many are reluctant to address. This is what he has to say:

The purification ritual involving the “Red Heifer” is one that has baffled the wisest of men and the deepest religious thinkers throughout the ages. Somehow, burning a cow, mixing its ashes with water and a few other ingredients and then sprinkling the concoction on an individual who has contracted ritual impurity via contact with a corpse can, following the proper procedure, purify him.

The aspect that has perplexed many, including King Solomon, is the fact that the one who is “sprinkled” becomes pure and the “sprinkler” is rendered impure. Perhaps a more interesting question is this: why does the Torah require a different ritual to cleanse this taint in contrast with the procedure to remove other ritual impurities from an individual (mikveh or mikveh plus korban)? The answer is because this taint involves human death.

When God created the world, for six days He affirms existence by declaring His own work “good.” In so doing, creation “remains in a pure, untouchable beyond” (Rosenzweig, Star of Redemption). The final time that God comments, He does not observe that the result of His handiwork at that moment of time is “good” (tov). Instead, God describes the “all that He made” as “very good” (tov me’od).

The Midrash Rabba, on Genesis 1:31, brings various opinions regarding the statement “very good”: “In the sefer Torah of Rabbi Meir they found, where the words “and behold it was very good” should be, the words “and behold death was good”. Rashi comments on Rabbi Meir’s teaching that death is good because, once dead, man can no longer sin.

Ramban on Genesis 1:31 parses the verse because he finds the word “very” to be superfluous. His initial observation is that God “added this word because He is speaking of creation in general, which contains evil in some part of it.” Thus, He said that it was very good, meaning its me’od is good [thus conveying the thought that even the small part of it which is evil is basically also good]. For Ramban, me’od refers to evil, but he does not yet identify or quantify that evil until he quotes Rabbi Meir’s statement that it is death. However, he qualifies this by commenting:

“[S]imilarly, the Rabbis mentioned, ‘this means the evil inclination in man,’ and ‘this means the dispensation of punishment.’”

Thus, it seems that Ramban, likewise views death as an external environmental force.

Rambam effectively divorces death from the Man-God relationship altogether. In commenting on the words vehinei tov me’od (Look! It was very good), he writes:

“Even death, which appears to constitute a return to nothingness, God considered as something positive, constructive, seeing it is only a prelude to rebirth, albeit sometimes in a different guise than that the previous incarnation. Death is perceived as the result of the ‘nothingness’ which had preceded the universe having become an integral part of this universe. Hence it had become a necessary phenomenon.” (Moreh Nevuchim 3:10).

In other words, God created death so that there could be an ongoing creation. One might perhaps term this as circular reasoning (if God did not terminate the world, there would be no need for a rebirth).  However, this is not circular reasoning; this is God logic – beyond our human comprehension. Regardless, this is universal death and not Man’s or human death. Thus, according to Maimonides, death is likewise a force without a direct relationship with Man. Thus, it is external to Man.

According to Rabbi Dr Norman Lamm, 

“Tov implies efficient functioning.  The creator saw every step in His developing universe ki tov, that it was functioning efficiently, carrying out the telos which He had assigned to it.” (“Good and Very Good’ Moderation and Extremism in the Scheme of Creation” in Tradition, 45:2, 2012).  

According to Lamm, if each component of creation functioned at its maximum efficiency or full potential, chaos would ensue:

 “This is so because the world is an interdependent system rather than a conglomeration of independent parts and a system requires the synergistic coordination of all of its constituent elements.”

Thus, only when each element functions with restraint (tov) can the whole be considered tov me’od.

Lamm explains that an immortal Man, with freedom of will, has the power to exploit any part of creation to its full potential. Death represents a limit and limits are necessary. The analogy he gives is the human body, itself. If cells multiply unchecked, man dies of cancer. Thus, for Lamm, death/mortality is the me’od, the required limit on the effective functioning, the tov, of every other creation. Thus, in this construct death is an integrated component of man and the functioning of the system, but not a part of the God-Man relationship. 

The sources surveyed, from the earliest to the more recent, seem to perceive death as a device or tool used by God, whether to influence later actions (Midrash), or to provide creative or spiritual counter-balance against good (Ramban), or to set up a system of constant creation and recreation (Rambam), or to sustain systemic balance (Lamm). The image that emerges from these Rabbinic sources of the initial conceptualization of death/mortality in Creation, is that of an instrument or process, something detached from Man, one that influences his environment/world, but that impacts him indirectly.

The impure man, tainted by contact with death, is purified by a bare and minimal contact with an external agent – the ashes of the Red Heifer – bound together with “mayim chayim” waters of life. Death influences him, it taints him by contact, and it will eventually claim him. However, the intrinsic message of this elaborate ritual, that stretches over a week, is that he should NOT be consumed by it – he should not become fully submerged in his own mortality.

Spiritual mysteries in the real world: Chukkat 5784

The Torah interrupts its narrative of the events that befell the Jewish people in the desert with a description of a commandment that admittedly lies beyond any rational human logic and understanding. Even the great King Solomon, the wisest and most analytical of all humans, was forced to admit that comprehension of this parsha was beyond even his most gifted intellect. So, if the Torah is meant to instruct us in life and its values, to improve and influence our behavior and lifestyle and to help us achieve our goal of being a holy people, why insert this parsha in the Torah when it can seemingly have no practical impact on our daily life or broaden our understanding of God’s presence in our lives? 

Though there is a section of Mishna devoted to the laws and halachic technicalities of the sacrifice of the “red heifer” it does not deal with the underlying motives for the existence of this commandment. Nor does it explain why this parsha is inserted here, right in the middle of its narrative of the events that transpired in the desert to the generation of Jews who left Egypt and stood at Mount Sinai. 

Both the Mishna and non-rabbinic sources provide a historical record that describes the actual performance of the commandment in Temple times. They remind us of our necessary obedience to God’s commandments even if they are not subject to human understanding. Even so, we still demand at least a glimmer of comprehension in order to make this parsha meaningful to us. 

The Torah seems to point out the reality that human life is always irrational and that human behavior frequently defies any logic or good sense. How could the generation that left Egypt and witnessed the revelation at Sinai complain about food when there was an adequate supply from Heaven? How could they prefer life in Egypt or even in the desert to living in the Land of Israel? And how could Moshe’s and Aharon’s own tribe and relatives rise against them in defiant and open rebellion? Are these not at heart bafflingly irrational decisions with a terrible downside to them? Yet they happened—and continued to happen constantly in Jewish and general life throughout history. Despite our best efforts and our constant delusion that we exist in a rational world, the Torah comes to inform us here that this is a false premise. 

If everyday life defies logic and accurate prediction, is it not most unfair and indeed illogical to demand of Torah and God that they provide us with perfectly explicable commandments and laws. The Torah inserts this parsha into the middle of its narrative of the desert adventures of the Jewish people to point out that the mysteries of life abound in the spiritual world just as they do in the mundane and seemingly practical world. 

One of the great lessons of Judaism is that we are to attempt to behave rationally even if, at the very same time, we realize that much in our personal and national lives is simply beyond our comprehension.

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein