Category: Torah

Korach’s Question Is Still Ours-Who gave you the right?

“Rav lachem — you have gone too far. The entire congregation is holy, every one of them, and God is in their midst. So why do you raise yourselves above God’s assembly?” (Num. 16:3). It sounds almost democratic. Everyone is holy, and power should be distributed. Who appointed you?

The word Korach uses for “raise yourselves” is hitnassu, from the root nasa, meaning “to lift” or “to carry.” This is no accident. Throughout the Book of Numbers, nasa is precisely what leaders are called to do for others. The census begins seu et rosh, “lift the heads” of the Israelites (Num. 1:2). In the Torah’s own grammar, leadership is the elevation of people. Korach takes that same word and turns it reflexive: you have been lifting yourselves. What began as a vocation becomes, in his telling, a vanity.

He has a point. Jacob Milgrom, in his landmark JPS Torah Commentary on Numbers (1990), notes that Korach’s protest reflects a genuine theological tension: the democratization of holiness at Sinai (“a kingdom of priests,” Ex. 19:6) sits uneasily alongside the hierarchical priestly structure that follows. Rashi, commenting on the opening verse, is more direct: his eyes misled him (Rashi on Num. 16:7). Korach understands the letter of the law. His error is not theological ignorance. It is envy dressed as principle. He deploys a genuine grievance to serve personal ambition, thereby corroding the very community whose holiness he claims to champion.

This is where Korach becomes unsettlingly contemporary.

Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone (2000) documented the collapse of social capital, the networks of trust, reciprocity, and civic engagement that hold communities together. Yuval Levin’s A Time to Build (2020) identified the specific pathology: our institutions have stopped forming people and have become platforms for individual performance. Leaders no longer serve the institution; they use it. The congregation becomes an audience. The office becomes a stage.

Korach doesn’t want to serve the assembly. He wants the assembly to confirm him.

A moment in the story is often overlooked. When Moses summons Datan and Aviram to speak, they refuse to come: lo na’aleh, “we will not come up” (Num. 16:12). The very men accusing Moses of inappropriate elevation refuse to engage. Their grievance has become more important to them than the community they claim to represent. This is how populism curdles: the aggrieved insist on the legitimacy of their anger while refusing the relational work that legitimate challenge requires.

What does legitimate challenge look like? Moses, for all his flaws, shows us something: he falls on his face (Num. 16:4). Not in capitulation, but in recognition of the stakes. He doesn’t reach for power. He keeps asking whether there is another way.

The erosion of trust in our moment is not simply the result of bad actors. It is the result of a culture that has learned to reward Korach’s move: mobilize grievance, claim to speak for everyone, and leverage that claim for personal advancement. It feels like democratic accountability, but it functions like its opposite.

The text poses a genuine question to us. Holding leaders accountable is an obligation. But how do we do it without Korach’s self-serving use of righteous language? How do we distinguish the prophet from the demagogue when both speak the language of liberation?

The Torah does not resolve this. It leaves us with it, deliberately.

Discernment is itself a form of holiness. And it has to be cultivated. It doesn’t arrive by earthquake or fire.

It comes, as it usually does, in relationship.

 

Key Citations

Rashi on Numbers 16:1 (s.v. va-yikach Korach).

Milgrom, Jacob. Numbers: The JPS Torah Commentary. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1990.

Putnam, Robert D. Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000.

Levin, Yuval. A Time to Build: From Family and Community to Congress and the Campus. New York: Basic Books, 2020.

What Are We Willing to Believe?-Parashat Shelach

The ten spies weren’t lying. That’s what makes Parashat Shelach so difficult to sit with.

They went. They looked. They came back and reported exactly what they saw: a land flowing with milk and honey, yes, and also giants and fortified cities. And as we so often feel, they add: we felt like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so were we in theirs. Numbers 13:33.

This is not dishonesty. It is about perception.

It is also a deeply human thing. The spies were not weak people. They were the chosen leaders of their tribes, sent precisely because they were capable. And yet standing before the walls of Canaan, something in them collapsed inward. The text doesn’t tell us why. It doesn’t need to. We know why. We have felt it ourselves. Fear has a way of shrinking our self-image before we have had a chance to act. We look at what is in front of us and conclude, before taking the first step, that we are not enough. The journey’s end is determined. Before they ever walk into Canaan.

The word for spies in the Torah is meraglim, from the root regel, foot. They were sent to walk the land. To touch it. To feel its soil. But what the ten spies brought back wasn’t the earth. It was their terror, projected onto the landscape. They looked at the land through the lens of their own smallness and concluded that the smallness was the land’s fault.

This is not a report on Canaan. It is a teaching about how fear shapes what we are capable of seeing.

Caleb and Joshua walked the same hills and tasted the same grapes. They came back with a different report, not because they were braver or stronger, or had seen something the others had not. They came back differently because they remembered differently. They carried with them the sea splitting, the manna falling, the cloud by day and the fire by night. They understood that they had not arrived at this border by their own strength alone. That memory, of miracle, of deliverance, of promise fulfilled along the way, gave them a self-image the ten could not sustain. They looked at what stood before them and saw not the size of the obstacle but the fullness of what they were capable of becoming.

Fear doesn’t lie to us about what’s in front of us. It lies to us about what we’re capable of.

B’nai Yisrael. In their fear, they condemned themselves to forty more years of wandering. Not as divine punishment but as the consequence of having decided before the battle was joined that they had already lost. You cannot enter a land you have already surrendered in your imagination.

We have all stood at the edge of a promise, one made to us, or one we made. And the voice insisting the battle is already lost before it has begun is most often our own.

We each carry more proof of what we have survived than fear would have us remember.

The giants are real. That was never the question.

The question is whether you are willing to believe in yourself enough to walk through your fear anyway.

The Blueprint for Sustaining the Light-Parshat Behaalotecha

Why do we keep looking back at a past that wasn’t even that good?

That’s the question hiding inside Parshat Behaalotecha. The Israelites have everything: the Mishkan, the cloud, the fire, the infrastructure of a people on the move toward something sacred. And within chapters, they’re weeping for Egypt’s cucumbers.

It would be easy to judge them. It is harder to recognize ourselves.

Here is what the Torah is actually diagnosing: nostalgia is a lie we tell ourselves about the past. The fish they’re mourning were eaten in slavery. The melons, the leeks, all of it was part of a life in which they were not free. Memory has a way of editing out the cost of what we’ve left behind, leaving only the flavor of what felt familiar.

But there’s something even sharper underneath the complaint. The manna was miraculous, and it had become ordinary. Not bad. Just expected. This is what psychologists call hedonic adaptation: what we once received as a gift quietly becomes baseline, and then disappointment begins right at the level of yesterday’s abundance. Having more doesn’t produce gratitude. It resets the threshold for what counts as “enough.”

The parsha opens with the image of the menorah: b’haalotecha et ha-nerot, when you lift up the lights. The kohen returned every single morning to tend the lamps, trimming wicks, clearing ash, and replenishing oil. Sacred light didn’t sustain itself. It required showing up, again and again, for the unglamorous work of maintenance.

That’s the image the Torah gives us for the spiritual life. Not the dramatic moment of ignition. The daily return.

The question Behaalotecha poses is not: Why am I struggling? It is: What am I actually hungry for, and have I confused familiarity with nourishment?

What flame in your life is asking you to come back to it?

 

 

 

Finding Humanity in the Wilderness-Bamidbar

We are living in a wilderness. The landmarks we relied on — shared institutions, common ground, the assumption that the person across from us inhabits the same basic reality — have grown unfamiliar. We are between what was and whatever comes next. Disoriented. And tempted, as people always are in disorienting times, to cluster into tribes, to find safety in the familiar, and to stop seeing the people just outside our camp.

Into that disorientation, the Torah this week offers a name for where we are. Bamidbar — In the Wilderness. And the first thing it does, before laws, before strategy, before the long march begins, is this: God tells Moses to count the people.

Not manu otam — number them. S’u et rosh — lift the head. Every person, by name, by clan, by family. Not a tally. A seeing.

This is the question Bamidbar puts to us: What does it mean to count someone?

We know one answer. We live with it every day. We count people to manage them — to allocate resources, to measure outcomes, to track attendance. In that kind of counting, what matters is the number, not the person behind it. The individual disappears into the aggregate. A congregation becomes “membership numbers.” A person in grief becomes a “case.”

The Torah offers a different answer.

In the wilderness, where the Israelites have no city, no home, no fixed identity beyond the memory of slavery, God insists on counting each one by name. Before anything else can happen — before the camp is organized, before the march continues — every person has to be seen as a person.

The word midbar shares a root with davar — word, speech, the act of speaking. The wilderness is the place of speech. Not the speech of a crowded life, where we talk past each other in corridors and Shabbat kiddushes. The speech of the stripped-down encounter — where there is nothing left but the person in front of you and what is actually true. That is where the Torah is given. Not in a palace. In the midbar, where the distractions fall away, and the question becomes unavoidable: who is here, and do I actually see them?

The Levites are counted separately in this parsha. Every other tribe is counted for military service — men twenty years and older, those who can bear arms. The Levites are not. They are assigned to the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, the portable dwelling of the divine in the midst of the people. Their job is not to fight. Their job is to tend the place of meeting — to keep open the space where a genuine encounter is possible. The entire camp is arranged around that center. The whole organization of the Israelite community in the wilderness is structured around proximity to the place of real meeting.

This is not incidental to Judaism. It is the architecture of it.

Bamidbar does not let us retreat into our tribes. Before the march begins, before positions are taken, God says, “Lift the head.” Not of your group. Of every person. The census is not an invitation to count the people who look like you.

Here is the call: Find one person this week you have been counting but not truly seeing. Not a category. Not a face you pass in a corridor. A person, by name, by what they are actually carrying right now. Ask a real question and stay for the answer.

That is what it means to be in the wilderness together. That is this week’s work.

From Grief to Geulah-Holding mourning and miracle in the same breath

No other nation on earth asks its people to do what Israel asks each spring: to sit in the ashes of devastating loss on one day, and dance in the streets the next. Yom Hazikaron — Israel’s Day of Remembrance for fallen soldiers and victims of terror — flows directly, by design, into Yom Ha’atzmaut, Independence Day. The transition is not an accident of the calendar. It is a theological statement.

In Israel, when the siren sounds, an entire country stops — on highways, in markets, mid-sentence. Over 24,000 soldiers and thousands of civilians are remembered not as statistics but as names and faces, beloved. Then, within hours, fireworks rise over the same sky. The whiplash is intentional. Joy built on forgotten grief is shallow. And grief without the horizon of hope becomes a tomb.

During my year as a rabbinical student in Jerusalem, I had the privilege of standing on Har Herzl, Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, for the ceremony that bridges these two days. There, among the graves of soldiers and statesmen, surrounded by thousands of Israelis, young and old, grief transformed in real time. The final notes of the memorial prayers gave way to the lighting of the torches, and the air itself seemed to shift. It was not that the sadness lifted; rather, hope rose to stand alongside it. I experienced more than a transition. This is a theology. In that moment, the narrative of the Jewish state and the narrative of my own Jewish heart were woven together into a whole cloth; each thread distinct yet inseparable from the other.

That sequence — lived in the body, not merely studied in a book — is the pedagogy. You cannot fully understand Yom Ha’atzmaut without first standing in the silence of Yom Hazikaron. The independence feels different when you know what it cost.

We are not asked to choose between memory and celebration. We are asked to hold both and to let the weight of one lend depth to the other.

As American Jews, we stand at a particular intersection in these days. We did not lose children in those wars. We were not present for 1948’s desperate birth, 1967’s breathtaking turn, or October 7th’s shattering grief. And yet, we are not strangers. Israel is not a foreign country to the Jewish soul. It is the address of our deepest longings, the landscape of our prayers, and at the core of our peoplehood.

These two days invite us into belonging, not as spectators but as members of an ancient family. To observe Yom Hazikaron is to say: their loss is part of our story. To celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut is to say: their miracle is part of our story, too. The spiritual architecture of this sequence teaches us that meaning is forged at the intersection of sorrow and hope. This is the Jewish way. This has always been the Jewish way.

May we honor those who fell, celebrate what they made possible, and carry both truths — as one people, from wherever in the world we stand.

 

The Metaphor of the Moment: Finding Meaning in the Exodus

The rituals and stories of Passover, like many others, are rarely about the literal meaning; they serve as invitations to explore the richer metaphors of human experience. During Pesach, we engage with texts that connect Divine mystery with human limitation, urging us to find hope in the most difficult circumstances.

A provocative and often-overlooked metaphor lies in the Matza. Tradition holds that the Israelites had so little time to escape Egypt that they couldn’t let their bread rise, yet the modern “halachic” or “kosher” process of Matza-making allows the dough to rise for up to 18 minutes. The text notes that, in the chaos of packing and rushing to leave, there was no time to let the dough rise. But surely, 18 minutes could have been found.

This raises a profound question: if we could have made the time, but the story insists we did not, what is the message? It suggests that the Exodus is more than just a historical event; it is a metaphor conveying a larger, universal message. The Matza symbolizes a deliberate choice to embrace the incomplete or unleavened. It serves as a reminder that when an extraordinary moment arrives, we must seize it, ready to leave behind the familiar, the influence, or relative comfort of our old lives before it can rise and hold us back.

 

 

Parshat Tetzaveh-Responsible Governing for the People

Parshat Tetzaveh marks a pivotal shift in the wilderness narrative of the Jewish people. While previous portions focused on the physical Tabernacle, Tetzaveh focuses on the human element: the inauguration of the Kohanim (priests). By establishing this dedicated class, the Torah ensures a disciplined bridge between the Divine Presence and B’nei Israel.

The transition from building structures to preparing “human vessels” reminds us that even the holiest space requires empathetic leadership to come to life. The priesthood was not an elite social hierarchy but a role of “functional holiness.” In Exodus 28:1, God commands Moses to “bring near” Aaron and his sons to serve, separating them to manage the meticulous maintenance of the Mishkan, which the general population could not sustain.

The priestly garments are a physical manifestation of this duty. The Choshen (Breastplate) bore the names of the twelve tribes, ensuring that the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) literally carried the nation’s weight “on his heart” (Exodus 28:29). This teaches that a leader’s primary function is representation and empathy, not merely ritual performance.

Faithfulness among the Kohanim was measured by adherence to strict protocols. The Milu’im (consecration process) involved smearing blood on the right ear, thumb, and big toe (Exodus 29:20), symbolizing a total commitment to:

  • Hearing: Attuning oneself to Divine instruction.
  • Action: Performing service with precision.
  • Movement: Walking a righteous path.

The Ner Tamid (Eternal Flame) serves as the ultimate metaphor for this duty. Commanded to kindle the lamps “from evening to morning” (Exodus 27:21), the priests maintained a consistency that transcended personal fatigue. Their faithfulness was embodied in the Tamid—the “always.”

The discipline required to keep the light burning is a powerful metaphor for contemporary society. Capricious or arbitrary leadership undermines the sacred role of those dedicated to preserving institutions. Just as the Kohanim served the Mishkan, today’s dedicated bureaucrats and elected leaders play a critical role in upholding the rule of law.

Long before democracy took its modern form, our tradition recognized that power is a sacred responsibility to the people. This value remains central to the rule of law and equal protection. Like the Kohanim, we are entrusted with preserving these “eternal flames” for generations to come.

 

Two questions to each of us

 

What do you stand for?

What are you willing to do about it?

Knowing who we are and the values we believe in is the first part of a critical two-step process.  The second step is knowing what you will do to realize them.

Sadly, we have grown accustomed to thinking we have done our part by voicing our opinions in public spaces. We have also shifted responsibility to the government without demanding accountability. However, only by engaging in the work can our opinions become a constructive force.

If you believe in feeding the hungry, for example, giving to a food bank in both time and money will help bring food to those in need.  Advocating for them by reaching out to those in power over the public funds is another.  Merely Saying you are against hunger on social media is a hollow gesture and a waste of time.

Decide what issues are significant enough that you will engage.  Most of us only have enough time to work on one or maybe two.  But in focusing and doing the work, you become a change agent. We are empowered to champion the values we believe in only if we are willing to commit in tangible ways to them.

 

 

Starting All Over Again -Bereishit

There is an old joke that goes something like this:

The rabbi sees Mrs. Schwartz in the grocery store just before the High Holidays. He greets her as most rabbis would, “Mrs. Schwartz, it’s so good to see you. I look forward to seeing you in the synagogue for the High Holidays.”

She replies, “It’s good to see you, too, rabbi. But I don’t think I’ll be coming.”

“Oh,” said the rabbi, “I hope everything is alright. Why won’t you be there?”

“Well, rabbi,” she responds, “Every year, it’s the same old thing. We even read the same Torah portion.”

Although the joke isn’t particularly funny, it notes an essential part of our wisdom tradition; every time we read “Bereishit Bara Elohim” or any part of the Torah, it is different because we are different. Every time we engage in a text, our understanding differs from the last time. Our experiences shape and influence us and, therefore, also affect how we grasp the text. Our lives have evolved, and likely, the questions on our minds do, too. All of us have experienced the same thing differently. Let me explain.

Think about returning to a place you’d been before. Despite our expectations, we experience it differently this time around. The river is not the same water; our favorite book or movie reveals different secrets. Even my beloved childhood Twinkies do not taste the same.

A teacher of mine shared that the answers you get depend on the questions you ask. Our texts are treasure troves, just waiting for us to uncover the precious jewels they contain. The questions I ask in middle age are very different from the ones I asked as a young person. The issues I confront today in our current climate have me seeking answers to deeply troubling questions about meaning, seeking wisdom from this insightful tradition.
We begin again with the first words of the Torah. But what does it mean? How does the message resonate with you now?

This has been a challenging year for Jews. The Oct. 7 invasion of Israel, the war starting in Gaza and expanding into Lebanon, threats from Iran, deep political unrest, antisemitism cloaked as anti-Zionism/anti-Israel and unvarnished Jew-hatred appearing across this country and the world have most of us reeling. We are shaken to our core and struggling to figure out how we move forward. Our texts are compelling and filled with timeless wisdom, and we grapple with them this year in ways that we didn’t expect.

During the High Holidays, we are reminded that God understood the need to create a world that balanced Din and Rachamim, law and compassion. Midrashim share stories that this world was not God’s first attempt. Previous creations failed due to the heavy reliance on one or the other trait. Our stories also tell us that the Torah existed even before creation.

This leads me to an interesting thought. Perhaps even the divine approaches the Torah differently, learning from each encounter. Even the almighty learns from the Torah.

Moses once asked the eternal one what would happen to the wisdom once Moses was gone. God sweeps him into a class taught by the sage Rabbi Akiva. Moses is perplexed as nothing Akiva says seems familiar to him as he listens. And then, as if on cue, Akiva closes with, “And all of this comes from the Torah of Moses, our teacher. One of the fantastic parts of our tradition is the messages of core values that remain timeless even if the way they are practiced or understood evolves with the generations.

Our mystical stories talk of black fire and white fire, describing our sacred scrolls.
The words, the letters of the words and even the white spaces on the sacred text are opportunities for us to learn, using the holy text as a timeless source of knowledge, bounded only by our ability to comprehend it.

So, Mrs. Schwartz didn’t get it quite right. As we read the story of God’s creating, let us use this as a chance to see not an old story but as one of a new beginning, reading with fresh eyes, engaging it and asking the essential personal questions as the story of the world and the Jewish people continues to unfold.

Rabbi David Levin is the founder of the Jewish Relationships Initiative, which aims to help seekers of meaning through Jewish Wisdom in human relationships and end-of-life challenges. He is also vice president of the Board of Rabbis of Greater Philadelphia. The Board of Rabbis of Greater Philadelphia is proud to provide diverse perspectives on Torah commentary for the Jewish Exponent. The opinions expressed in this column are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the view of the Board of Rabbis.