June 9th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
A persistent theme in the Book of Numbers is our unhappiness with God and God’s plans. Though there were probably some non-dramatic moments in the forty years that the book covers, the text seems full of stories about conflicts. We do not like the food. We cannot find water. We do not want to conquer the Promised Land. Some do not like Moses and Aaron and want themselves to be the leaders. Some of our people are attracted to idolatry and pagan rites, and two of the tribes want to stay on the eastern side of the Jordan River.
The problem this week is the food, God’s miraculous gift manna from heaven. “The riffraff in the midst of the Israelites felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna!’” (Numbers 11.4-6)
It is very human to want variety, so the idea of eating the same thing for every single meal is terribly monotonous. However, the manna is free and delicious: “Now the manna was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11.78) The Midrash adds that it is miraculous—that it tastes like whatever the eater wants. Of course, this is a Rabbinic enhancement and not in the text itself.
Meanwhile, notice how the Torah’s words draw a curious distinction between the instigators of the complaining and the general Israelite population. The word riffraff, in Hebrew “ha’saf’suf asher b’kirbo / the riffraff in their midst,” suggests that these complainers are somehow a foreign intrusion who turn our tranquil and appreciative ancestors into whining rebels.
Some commentators explain that these outsiders are the Erev Rav, the Mixed Multitude of non-Hebrews who join us when we depart Egypt. They could be remnants of the Hyksos who invaded and then ruled Egypt for several centuries. They could be other conquered and enslaved peoples. They could be Egyptians who lose faith in the Pharaoh’s divinity. In some views of the Exodus, these additional refugees speak to the universal promise of God’s freedom, and they can even be considered among our first gerim / converts. Remember the covenant ceremony as described in Nitzavim: “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11). They may not be born Hebrews, but they join our Israelite people and are welcomed into our covenant with God.
On the other hand, some commentators jump to defend our ancestors by suggesting that it must be the non-Hebrews who cause all the trouble in the Torah: the Golden Calf, the constant complaining, the refusal to commit to the conquest, etc. Though God often calls us all “a stiff- necked people,” some commentators insist that our sainted ancestors are nothing but pious, obedient, and utterly without sin. If something goes wrong, it must be someone else’s fault.
It is difficult to accept our own guilt or malfeasance—our own selfishness or lack of faith, but the fact is that we are often our own worst enemies. It is not a matter of labeling us as villains or consigning us to Hell. Rather, it is a matter of honestly looking at our difficulties and realizing the times when our actions or attitudes contribute to our troubles. Would that we could be honest and self-reflective. Would that we could stop our brains from persistently and obnoxiously trying to exonerate our foibles or missteps or sins. And, more importantly, would that we could resist the temptation to blame others.
There are times when enemies surround us, when the actions of others cause danger or damage or worse. In such situations, it is prudent to identify the causes and figure out ways to elude them or defend against them. However, when we are the problem, it is manifestly unjust to try to foist our guilt upon others. We have certainly been the victims of such projecting, and we should be very reticent to repeat this kind of unrighteous behavior.
Tradition seems both to sense this problem and provide a remedy. In the previous chapter, we read the words Moses declares as the Israelites lift the Ark of the Covenant and begin to move forward. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!” (Number 10.35-36) In the ancient movement of our multitudinous camp, this declaration is a warning to our foes. However, we no longer move the Holy Ark, and Tradition now calls for these words to be proclaimed in our worship service when we open the Ark for the Torah service. We say, “May Your enemies, O Lord, flee before You,” but who exactly are these enemies? Everyone in the synagogue is presumably a friend. Or are we? Though we aspire to be friends of God, are we not also in possession of evil possibilities? Are we not capable of selfishness and mean-spiritedness, of cynicism and impiety, of vulgarity and gossip and sin?
Perhaps the enemies we hope to vanquish are our own evil inclinations, and we invoke God’s help in this continuous struggle. We can be the loyal children of God, but we can also be the riffraff in our midst. We can be the ones looking for holy possibilities, but we can also be plotting our own misadventures. The only way for us to choose the good is to acknowledge both our virtues and our sins. Honest self-reflection is the first step in fulfilling God’s hopes for us—that we will become blessings. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!”