Parshat Bamidbar5 min read

Israel Was Counted, Wounded, and Sent Forward

God counts Israel in the wilderness, but the people exceed every number, carry the damage of the golden calf, and still march toward Canaan.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Count Began With a Wound Already in It
  2. The Sand Could Not Be Measured
  3. The Calf's Damage Reached the Camp's Purity
  4. Moses Hit a Brick Wall With Edom
  5. Joseph Dreamed Before the Count Began

The Count Began With a Wound Already in It

Israel had been counted before. Going down into Egypt: seventy souls. Coming out: six hundred thousand men of fighting age, plus women, children, and a mixed multitude who had joined the escape. Each count marked a different chapter of the same story, and the rabbis knew that stories tracked through counting are stories that keep returning to the question of who survived.

In the wilderness of Sinai, God commanded another census. The tabernacle had just been built, the cloud was settled over it, and now the people needed to be numbered tribe by tribe. But the counting itself was a reminder. Numbers carry memory. Every head counted in the wilderness also remembered who was not counted in Egypt, who died crossing the sea, who fell at the foot of the mountain after the golden calf.

The Sand Could Not Be Measured

Then came the paradox. Everything in creation has measure: the waters of the sea, the dust of the earth, the mountains and their heights. But Israel was promised to Abraham as uncountable as the sand on the shore. Every census therefore contains its own contradiction. You command a count of a people whose covenant exceeds every count.

The rabbis did not resolve this. They held it. The count gives order, assigns each person to a tribe, places each tribe in a position around the Tabernacle. The promise spills past the count in every direction. A nation can be both numbered and innumerable at the same time, because the number belongs to the present generation and the promise belongs to all generations together.

The Calf's Damage Reached the Camp's Purity

The golden calf did not only kill three thousand men in the immediate punishment. Its damage spread forward in time. By the time Numbers is told, the calf is already weeks in the past, but its shadow falls over the laws of the camp's purity. The requirement to expel those who are ritually impure from the camp, the rules about contamination and distance, the priests and Levites maintaining the boundaries of holiness around the Tabernacle: all of this labor exists partly because the people have already proven what happens when holiness is not carefully guarded.

The camp in the wilderness was built as a response to failure, not as a reward for success. The elaborate order of tribe and banner and position was given to a people who had just worshipped metal. God did not take the Mishkan back. He gave Israel a structure instead, a visible arrangement of where each family stood, so that everyone would know their place in relation to the center.

Moses Hit a Brick Wall With Edom

Israel needed a road through Edom's territory to reach Canaan. Moses sent messengers with a careful appeal: remember we are brothers. Remember Egypt. We will not touch your fields or your water. We will walk the king's highway and deviate from it not at all.

Edom refused. Not only refused but came out with a heavy army to emphasize the refusal. Israel turned away and went around. The detour added time and distance to an already long journey, and the people's patience frayed. God had promised the land. The road to the land was still blocked. The rabbis read this not as a failure of Moses' diplomacy but as a lesson about limits: even divine purpose walks roads that go around human resistance rather than through it. Not every wall falls when you knock on it correctly.

Joseph Dreamed Before the Count Began

Behind all the wilderness counting stood the older mystery of Saul's time, of Joseph's time, of the patriarchs whose stories the rabbis wove into the fabric of Numbers. The sheaves of Joseph's dream bowed down, and his brothers could not see their own bowing in advance. Providence does not announce its arithmetic. It works through dreams and famine and pits and prisons, and when the count finally comes out correct, no one who lived through the middle portion of the story could have predicted the total.

Israel in the wilderness was still inside the middle portion. The count in Numbers was not the final sum. It was the number at this particular stage of a story whose total would not be announced until the people had crossed the river and settled the land and built the city and lost the city and kept the counting going through every generation after that.

TribesMosesBamidbar RabbahIsraelGolden CalfWilderness
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Bamidbar Rabbah 2:11Bamidbar Rabbah

It turns out, quite a few times. And each counting, each census, seems to carry its own weight, its own story.

Our springboard is the verse in Numbers, 2:32: "These are those who were counted of the children of Israel by their patrilineal house; all those counted of the camps according to their hosts were six hundred and three thousand, and five hundred and fifty." A seemingly simple statement, but according to Bamidbar Rabbah – a treasure trove of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Numbers – this verse opens a door to understanding the many times we, as a people, have been counted.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) identifies ten distinct countings of Israel throughout our history. Ten! Let's walk through them

First, there was the count upon our descent into Egypt. As (Deuteronomy 10:22) reminds us, "With seventy people, your ancestors descended to Egypt…" From a small family to a burgeoning nation.

Then, upon our ascent out of Egypt, we were counted again. (Exodus 12:37) tells us, "The children of Israel traveled from Rameses to Sukot, some six hundred thousand men on foot." What a transformation!

A third counting occurred after the sin of the Golden Calf. Remember that episode? (Exodus 30:12) says, "When you take a census of the children of Israel…" A moment of atonement, perhaps, marked by a new accounting.

The Midrash points out that in the Book of Numbers itself, we are counted twice. Once with the banners, as we are preparing to journey through the wilderness, and again later, in preparation for the division of the land of Israel. Structure and order being brought to the Israelite nation.

Then come the days of Saul. Here, things get interesting. Bamidbar Rabbah references two verses: I (Samuel 15:4), "He counted them in Tela’im," and I (Samuel 11:8), "He counted them in Bazek." But the Midrash doesn't take these verses at face value. The word tela’im is also the Hebrew word for lambs. The Midrash suggests that when the people were wealthy, they were counted with lambs. And bazek? Well, that’s related to the Hebrew word for pebbles. So, when times were tough, they were counted with pebbles. A poignant reminder that even in counting, our circumstances matter.

Next, we arrive at the time of David. II (Samuel 24:9) states, "Yoav gave the sum of the number [mispar] of the census [mifkad] of the people [to the king]." Now, the Midrash asks a clever question: if it says mispar, why does it also say mifkad? Mispar and mifkad are similar in meaning. The Midrash answers that Yoav, wise in his own way, actually prepared two notes: a large sum and a small sum. He showed the small one to David, but kept the large one hidden. The idea being that David and the people were punished for conducting the census, and Yoav thought he could lessen the blow by hiding the true number.

After that, the Midrash cites the counting in the days of Ezra, as recorded in (Ezra 2:64): "The entire congregation together was forty[-two] thousand [three hundred and sixty]." A return from exile, a new beginning, marked by a careful count.

And finally, the Midrash looks to the future, quoting (Jeremiah 33:13): "The flock will pass again under the hands of one who counts." A promise of a future reckoning, a final accounting.

So, there you have it: ten times Israel was counted. But more than just a historical record, these countings speak to something deeper. They reflect our journey as a people, through times of prosperity and hardship, from slavery to freedom, from exile to return. And perhaps, they remind us that we are always being counted, always being seen, always a part of something larger than ourselves.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 2:17Bamidbar Rabbah

Bamidbar Rabbah 2 dives into this very idea, opening with a quote from Hosea (2:1): "The number of the children of Israel will be..." It then launches into a fascinating exploration of measure and limit. Rabbi Avin HaLevi bar Rabbi, quoting Ezra (8:34), declares, "Everything by number and by weight..." He argues that everything in existence has its measure. Water, the heavens, dust, mountains, hills, all meticulously quantified, as the prophet Isaiah tells us. The sheer scale of it is mind-boggling.

Then comes the twist. What about Israel? Here, the rules seem to bend. According to Rabbi Avin, Israel defies easy measurement. "The one who has neither weight nor measure is Israel," he says, "who have neither weight nor measure, as it is stated: 'The number of the children of Israel will be like the sand of the sea [which cannot be measured and cannot be counted].'" Just as the sand of the sea is countless, so too is the potential and the essence of Israel.

This idea is illustrated with a parable. Imagine a person skilled in three crafts: goldsmithing (considered the most sophisticated), pottery (the least), and glassblowing (somewhere in between). Depending on someone's feelings toward this person, they'd be called the son of a goldsmith (if loved), a potter (if hated), or a glazier (if viewed neutrally).

Similarly, Moses, filled with love for Israel, compares them to the stars: "Behold you are today as the stars of the heavens in abundance" (Deuteronomy 1:10). Bilam, harboring animosity, sees them as mere dust: "Who has counted the dust of Jacob?" (Numbers 23:10). And Hosea, taking a more detached view, likens them to sand: "The number of the children of Israel will be like the sand of the sea." Each metaphor reflecting a different perspective, a different value assigned to the same people.

But the metaphor of sand goes deeper. Israel is likened to sand, while other nations are likened to lime, as Isaiah (33:12) says, "Peoples will be burnings of lime." The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) suggests that lime, by itself, is unstable. It needs sand to give it endurance. So too, without Israel, the nations of the world would be unable to endure. Joseph’s presence saved Egypt from famine. Daniel's wisdom rescued the wise men of Babylon. There's an interdependence, a vital connection, suggested here.

Rabbi Menaḥma, in the name of Rabbi Beivai, and Rabba, in the name of Rabbi Eliezer ben Yaakov, offer another insight. Just as a hole dug in the sand fills overnight, so too, the losses suffered by Israel are eventually replenished. The thousands lost in the days of David were restored in the days of Solomon, as 1 Kings (4:20) states: "Judah and Israel were numerous, like the sand that is by the sea in abundance."

Finally, Rabbi Elazar, in the name of Rabbi Yosei ban Zimra, makes a crucial distinction: whenever Israel was counted for a specific, purposeful reason, they did not suffer a loss. This happened in the days of Moses, with the banners and the distribution of the land. But when counted without a clear purpose, as in the days of David, they suffered.

What does this all mean? Perhaps it's about potential versus actualization. Maybe it's about the dangers of objectification versus the power of purposeful action. It could be that the immeasurable nature of Israel lies not in sheer quantity, but in the boundless potential that unfolds when intention and purpose are aligned.

So, are we like the sand of the sea? Countless, resilient, and essential? Or are we something more? Something that defies easy categorization and thrives on purpose? It’s a question worth pondering, isn't it? A question that invites us to consider our own place in the grand, immeasurable scheme of things.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 7:4Bamidbar Rabbah

Leprosy, for example, wasn't just a disease. According to some Jewish traditions, it could be a sign of something deeper, a consequence of wrongdoing. But what wrongdoing specifically? That's where the stories get interesting.

The book of Bamidbar Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Numbers, grapples with this very question. Specifically, it asks, regarding the verse "They shall send out from the camp every leper…", what was the source of this leprosy? Where did it come from?

Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Simon suggests it stemmed from the sin of the Golden Calf. Remember that story? The Israelites, impatient with Moses's prolonged absence on Mount Sinai, fashioned and worshipped a golden idol. A pretty serious breach of covenant.

Other Rabbis point to the murmurers – those who constantly complained and grumbled against God. It's this second explanation that Bamidbar Rabbah really dives into. So, how did murmuring lead to leprosy?

Well, picture this: God is providing for the Israelites in the desert, raining down manna, that miraculous bread from heaven. According to our Rabbis, this was no ordinary food. God performed miracles so that the Israelites wouldn’t even need to relieve themselves! The idea, they said, was that if God called them “divine” (as it says in (Psalms 82:6), "I had said: You are divine"), they shouldn't have to engage in such mundane activities, just like the angels. Plus, God wanted to distinguish His children from the other nations.

But what did the Israelites do with this incredible gift? They became cynical. They started complaining, saying things like, "This manna doesn't flow down! I'm afraid my stomach will swell up and burst!" As Bamidbar Rabbah tells it, God was deeply offended. He felt provoked. (Numbers 14:11) says, "Until when will this nation continue to provoke Me? Until when will they not believe in Me?" Notice it says, "signs that I have performed in their midst [bekirbo]," not just for them. Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai even interprets bekirbo as "in their innards," suggesting God performed miracles within their very bodies.

The manna, according to (Psalm 78:25), was "the bread of abirim." But the Rabbis play on the word, reading it as "the bread of eivarim" – bread that is absorbed in their organs. Yet, despite all this, they complained!

They longed for the "good old days" in Egypt, remembering the "fleshpots" and abundant food. They declared, "Our soul is parched; there is nothing at all; nothing but the manna to look to!" (Numbers 11:6).

Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai asks a crucial question: Were they really just craving meat? After all, the manna tasted like whatever they desired! He suggests they were using this as an excuse, a "pretext for how to return to Egypt."

God, however, responded to their request for meat. But there was a catch. Those who had murmured against Him would find that the meat would "examine him," and it would come out of his nose! As (Numbers 11:20) says, "Until it comes out of your nose, and it will be lezara for you."

Now, lezara is interpreted in various ways. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish says it means croup. Rabbi Huna HaKohen (a priest) bar Avin, quoting Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman, says it means vomit and excrement. Rabbi Evyatar suggests it means a tick or a worm in their intestines. Rabbi Aivu bar Nagari sees it as a warning.

But Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Simon offers a particularly striking interpretation: lezara means they became outcasts [zarim]. Just as (Leviticus 22:13) says, "No zar may eat of it," so too, anyone who blasphemes God becomes an outcast. And how does this happen? Leprosy befalls them. God says they are outcasts from the congregation, hence the command to "send out from the camp every leper…"

So, according to this interpretation, the leprosy was a direct consequence of their lack of faith and their constant complaining. It was a physical manifestation of their spiritual separation from God and the community.

But what about Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Simon's other explanation, that the leprosy stemmed from the sin of the Golden Calf? He finds support in (Isaiah 17:11): "On the day of your planting you will flourish, and in the morning your seed will blossom; your branch will be lost on a day of affliction and mortal pain."

Our Rabbis note that forty days after receiving the Torah, the Israelites made the calf. According to tradition, God even hinted at this to Moses, saying they would only be completely devoted to Him for forty days, referencing (Exodus 19:6), “You shall be for Me [li] a kingdom of priests…” The numerical value of the Hebrew letters lamed and yod in the word li, is thirty and ten, respectively, totaling forty.

Different Rabbis debated the exact number of days of true devotion, some saying twenty-nine, others eleven, drawing their interpretations from (Deuteronomy 1:2). Rabbi Shimon ben Ḥalafta even said they were only completely devoted for one day, citing (Deuteronomy 4:10).

Rabbi Meir goes even further, suggesting that even when they said, "Everything that the Lord has spoken we will perform and we will heed" (Exodus 24:7), their hearts weren't in it. As (Psalms 78:36-37) says, "But they enticed Him with their mouth and deceived Him with their tongue. Their heart was not true with Him."

Isaiah echoes this sentiment, saying, "On the day of your planting you will flourish (tesagsegi)" (Isaiah 17:11). God says that on the very day He sought to establish them as His nation, they produced dross (sigim).

The Rabbis then offer a series of analogies. One compares it to a king with a beautiful garden of cabbage, only to find it ruined in the morning. Another compares it to a field of flax that turns to stalks overnight. God says to Israel, "And in the morning your seed will blossom [tafriḥi]" (Isaiah 17:11), which they interpret as meaning the seeds flew out, a sign of deterioration.

The verse concludes with "a day of affliction [naḥala]" and "mortal pain." The Rabbis explain that this refers to a day when God intended to give them an inheritance [naḥala], but they failed to sustain His kingdom. The "mortal pain" is leprosy, a disease that causes the body to decompose, leading to the command to separate the lepers from the camp.

So, what do we take away from all of this? Perhaps it's a reminder that our actions have consequences, both physical and spiritual. Or maybe it's a call to appreciate the blessings we have and to avoid the trap of constant complaining. After all, as these stories suggest, sometimes our inner state can manifest in very tangible ways. And sometimes, what seems like a purely physical ailment might just be a sign of a deeper spiritual malaise.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 9:14Bamidbar Rabbah

The Torah (Numbers 5:17) instructs the priest to take "sacred water in an earthenware vessel, and from the dirt that is on the floor of the Tabernacle.place it into the water." But where does this “sacred water” come from? According to this midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), it's none other than water sanctified in a vessel – specifically, water from the basin (kiyor) in the Tabernacle.

Why the basin? The kiyor, we are told, was crafted from the mirrors of the women who assembled at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting (Exodus 38:8). These weren't just any mirrors; they represented the women's unwavering commitment to purity, even in the face of Egyptian oppression. The midrash says these women declared, "God testifies on our behalf that we departed from Egypt pure!" And when Moses was instructed to build the basin, God specifically told him to use these mirrors. Why? Because, as the text says, "they were not utilized for the purpose of harlotry, and with them, their daughters will be examined whether they are as pure as their mothers.” The very instrument used for vanity, for outward appearance, is transformed into a symbol of inner purity and a tool for discerning truth. The Zohar adds another layer, suggesting that the Divine Presence rests upon those who maintain purity, making the water from the basin especially potent.

The story doesn’t stop there. The midrash connects the women's purity in Egypt to the entire redemption story. God’s miracles, the text argues, were a direct result of the Israelites’ adherence to moral boundaries. Consider the plagues: Egyptians drinking blood while Jews drank water, frogs leaping upon Egyptians but fleeing from Jews, hail sparing Jewish livestock while killing Egyptian. These weren't random acts; they were divine responses to the Israelites’ distinct moral character.

Even the parting of the Red Sea, the Bamidbar Rabbah suggests, was a greater miracle than anything experienced in Egypt. Rabbi Yitzḥak asks, rhetorically, "Is there a great hand and is there a small hand?" His answer: that the miracle at the sea was greater than the miracles in Egypt! He congealed one-third of the sea (referencing the idea that the heart is one-third of a person) and allowed them to walk on dry land. (Exodus 15:8)

But this display of divine favor didn't go unnoticed. The nations of the world cried foul, accusing God of favoritism. "We are uncircumcised and they are uncircumcised," they protested. "For them, 'the Lord saved Israel on that day.' but for us, 'He hurled Pharaoh and his army into the Red Sea!'" (Exodus 14:30, (Psalms 136:1)5)

So, what made Israel so deserving? The midrash answers with a fascinating, albeit somewhat cryptic, explanation involving family lineage and moral integrity. It speaks of seventy nations, but then introduces the concept of "sixty queens" and "eighty concubines" – families with unclear paternal or maternal lineage. In contrast, Israel, despite their time in Egypt, maintained a clear lineage, a evidence of their moral fiber. Even the one instance of a mixed lineage, the son of an Israelite woman and an Egyptian man (Leviticus 24:10), is explicitly called out.

This emphasis on lineage and purity culminates in the explanation for using the water from the basin for the sotah ritual. The midrash argues that the mothers of this generation grew up amongst impurity, but remained beyond suspicion; while the current generation grew up amongst purity, yet is suspected. "Therefore," the text concludes, "let the handiwork of those who grew among the impure, but were pure, examine and prove regarding those who grew among the pure and were defiled. That is why the water is from the basin."

So, what can we take away from this interplay of stories and interpretations? Perhaps it's a reminder that holiness can emerge from unexpected places. That even objects associated with vanity, like mirrors, can be transformed into symbols of purity and instruments of divine judgment. And perhaps, most importantly, it’s a call to examine our own lives, to strive for the same unwavering commitment to moral integrity that defined the women of the Exodus, and ultimately, paved the way for redemption.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 13:18Bamidbar Rabbah

Bamidbar Rabbah refuses to skim the tribal offerings. Reuben's silver dish, basin, and incense ladle all become signals.

The Torah tells us about Elitzur's offering: "His offering was one silver dish, its weight one hundred and thirty; one silver basin of seventy shekels, in the sacred shekel; both of them full of high quality flour mixed with oil as a meal offering; one gold ladle, ten shekels, full of incense" (Numbers 7:31-32). Okay, so what?

The Midrash doesn't just take things at face value. It digs deeper, searching for hidden connections and symbolic meanings. For example, the word for "dish" in Hebrew is ke'arat. But Bamidbar Rabbah suggests we read it as akeret, connecting it to the Hebrew word ikar, meaning "main" or "principal." This links the offering to Reuben’s pivotal role in saving Joseph's life!

Remember the story? Joseph's brothers were ready to kill him, but Reuben intervened. "Reuben heard and rescued him from their hand," (Genesis 37:21) tells us. He was the one who first initiated the rescue. He uprooted – akar – the murderous thought of his brothers. That's powerful stuff.

And the "silver"? The Midrash connects it to (Proverbs 10:20), "The tongue of the righteous is choice silver." Reuben's words, his arguments, were precious and valuable, saving Joseph from certain death. The weight of the silver dish, "one hundred and thirty"? This corresponds to the numerical value of the first letters of the words "lo nakenu nafesh" – "Let us not smite him mortally" (Genesis 37:21).

The "silver basin," or mizrak, corresponds to the counsel Reuben gave, suggesting they cast – sheyizreku – Joseph into a pit instead of killing him directly (Genesis 37:22). Again, the Midrash draws a direct line between the offering and Reuben's actions. The basin contained "seventy shekels," mirroring the numerical value of the Hebrew word sod – "secret" – representing Reuben's hidden intention to ultimately rescue Joseph.

But what about the "gold ladle full of incense"? The Midrash says the ladle, kaf (which also means "palm" or "hand"), corresponds to Reuben's plea: "Do not lay a hand on him" (Genesis 37:22). He saved himself by admonishing his brothers, and he saved nine brothers from bloodshed. The "gold" is linked to parvayim gold, a type of gold that resembles blood.

The incense is particularly poignant. According to the Midrash, even though the tribes sold Joseph, this act ultimately benefited everyone, leading Joseph to power and providing food during the famine. "Merit is engendered by means of the meritorious." Another interpretation states that Reuben was in deep repentance for his transgression with Bilha (Genesis 35:22), and prayer is likened to incense, as (Psalm 141:2) says, "Let my prayer stand as incense before You."

So, the offerings aren't just random gifts. They're a reflection of Reuben’s character, his actions, his repentance, and ultimately, his redemption. The "young bull, one ram, one lamb" are connected to his repentance, likened to the offerings of a sinner. And the "goat as a sin offering" specifically atones for the act with Bilha.

The Midrash even suggests that Moses was able to pray on Reuben's behalf because of these acts, ensuring he wouldn't be excluded from his brothers: "May Reuben live and not die, and may his people be counted" (Deuteronomy 33:6).

The details, the weights, the types of offerings…they all point to a deeper narrative. A story of sin, repentance, and ultimately, forgiveness and restoration. What seemed like a dry list of offerings becomes a powerful reminder that even our mistakes can be a catalyst for growth and redemption. And that, perhaps, is why the Torah dwells on what seems, at first glance, excessive detail. It’s in those details that the human story truly lives.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 15:21Bamidbar Rabbah

The Book of Numbers, Bamidbar in Hebrew, picks up the story after the tumultuous events at Sinai. In Bamidbar Rabbah 15, a Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), or interpretive commentary, explores a seemingly simple instruction from God to Moses: "Gather to Me seventy men" (Numbers 11:16). The question the Midrash poses is deceptively simple: Where were the initial seventy men?

To answer this, the Midrash takes us back to Egypt. Remember, even in the throes of slavery, the Israelites had a structured community. (Exodus 3:16) tells us God instructed Moses to "Go and assemble the elders of Israel." These weren't just any elders; these were seventy leaders who, according to the Midrash, accompanied the Israelites out of Egypt. They were with Moses on Mount Sinai when he received the Torah, as (Exodus 24:1), 9, and 14 recounts: “Moses and Aaron, Nadav and Avihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel ascended."

Remember the Golden Calf incident? The Midrash connects the dots, revealing a heartbreaking truth.

Moses, as you'll recall, ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. He told the people he would return in forty days. But when he was delayed – the Hebrew word used is boshesh, meaning "tarried" – panic set in. The people, feeling lost and abandoned, went to the seventy elders. "Moses stipulated that he would descend at the end of forty days," they cried, "It is now six hours later and he has not descended and we do not know what became of him. Rise, craft for us a god that will go before us, as this [ki zeh] man, Moses, who took us up from the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him" (Exodus 32:1).

The elders, horrified, tried to reason with them. "Why are you provoking the One who performed all those miracles and wonders on your behalf?" they pleaded. But the people wouldn't listen. Tragically, according to Bamidbar Rabbah, the people turned on the elders and killed them. Ḥur, who also stood against the idolatry, met the same fate.

Then they turned to Aaron. "Rise, craft for us a god," they demanded, "and if not ki zeh, we will do to you like this [kazeh]. Just as we stood against Ḥur and killed him, so we will do to you.” Faced with the same violent mob that murdered the elders and Ḥur, Aaron, fearing for his life, relented and fashioned the Golden Calf.

Rabbi Yitzchak's comment on this situation is striking. He states: "The Divine Spirit is screaming: 'I abhor the assembly of evildoers [and will not sit with the wicked]'" (Psalms 26:5).

The Midrash even finds echoes of this tragedy in the words of the prophet Jeremiah, who rebukes Israel: "Moreover, on the edge of your garments [biknnafekha] the blood of the lives of the blameless poor is found; you did not find them clandestinely; rather on all these" (Jeremiah 2:34). The Midrash explains that "on all these [eleh]" refers to "This is [eleh] your god" (Exodus 32:4), linking the idolatry directly to the bloodshed.

So what was the retribution? "The Lord afflicted the people, because they crafted the calf" (Exodus 32:35). And after forgiveness was granted, God commanded Moses to gather seventy new elders, replacing those who had been murdered for upholding God's name. As the Midrash concludes, this fulfills the verse in (Job 34:24): "He shatters the powerful without number and sets others in their place.”

It’s a sobering reminder of the fragility of faith and the cost of leadership. These seventy elders, chosen for their wisdom and standing, ultimately sacrificed their lives trying to keep the Israelites on the right path. Their story, though not explicitly detailed in the Torah itself, adds a layer of depth and tragedy to the Golden Calf narrative. It makes us wonder about the unsung heroes of our traditions, those who stood firm in their beliefs, even in the face of unimaginable pressure and violence. What does it mean to be a leader when your community is facing a crisis? And what are we willing to sacrifice for our principles? These are questions that this Midrash leaves us to ponder, long after the story is told.

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Bamidbar Rabbah 19:15Bamidbar Rabbah

This week,

The scene is set in (Numbers 20:14). The Israelites, after decades of wandering, are trying to pass through Edom. Moses sends messengers, saying, "So said your brother Israel: You know all the travail that we have encountered." But within that simple request lies a world of complex relationships and unspoken resentments.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) draws a connection to (Psalms 15:3): "He who does not gossip with his tongue, nor does evil to his neighbor, nor tolerates disgrace for his relative.": Moses, despite the Israelites’ provocations at the waters of Meriva (Numbers 20:13, (Psalms 106:3)2) where he "suffered on their account," doesn't abandon them. He still advocates for them, sending messengers to Edom. The Midrash beautifully interprets the end of the verse as "he does not consider himself to be disgraced on account of his relative," instead continuing to work on their behalf. It's a powerful evidence of loyalty, even when things get tough.

Moses' message to Edom is carefully crafted. “Our ancestors descended to Egypt, and we lived in Egypt many years, and the Egyptians mistreated us and our ancestors" (Numbers 20:15). He’s reminding Edom of their shared history, their shared ancestry. As the text notes, he is saying to Edom: ‘You know that when the Holy One blessed be He said: “Know, that your descendants will be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and they will be enslaved to them, and they will oppress them, four hundred years” (Genesis 15:13), we were enslaved, but you are a free man.’

The Midrash uses a clever analogy here. Imagine two brothers whose grandfather had a debt. One brother pays it off. Later, he asks to borrow something from the other. Wouldn't he expect a little goodwill? Moses is essentially saying, "We paid the price of oppression. Can’t you at least let us pass through your land?"

But there's more to it than just a simple request. Moses is acutely aware of how the Israelites might be perceived. He anticipates Edom's potential concerns. "Please, let us pass through your land; we will not pass through a field or through a vineyard, and we will not drink well water; we will go on the king’s way; we will not turn right or left until we pass your border” (Numbers 20:17). Notice it doesn't say "water of pits," which is plural. The Midrash teaches us about derekh eretz – etiquette. When visiting a foreign land, even if you have your own provisions, you should buy from the local merchants to support their economy.

Moses goes even further, explaining, "The well accompanies us and we eat manna; do not say that we are an imposition upon you. You will be earning income for yourself.” He's reassuring Edom that they won't be a burden. In fact, they'll even bring economic benefit! And as God later instructs in (Deuteronomy 2:6), "You shall purchase food from them with silver." Moses is telling them to loosen their purse strings. As the text says, ".so they will not say: They were slaves, they are poor. Show them your wealth, and they will know that you did not lose because of the enslavement.”

Despite all these assurances, Edom refuses. "Edom said to him: You shall not pass through me, lest I come out toward you with the sword" (Numbers 20:18). So much for brotherly love. As the Midrash connects it to (Psalms 120:7), "I am peace; but when I speak, they are for war."

Why the refusal? The text suggests that it wasn't entirely Edom's decision. God Himself didn't want the Israelites passing through. As (Deuteronomy 2:5) states, "Do not provoke them, for I will not give you from their land." And (Numbers 20:21) confirms, "Edom refused to allow Israel." The Israelites then appeal to Moab, with a similar result.

The passage even draws upon (Judges 11:17) to highlight the consistency of Edom and Moab's refusal, reinforcing the idea of a divine orchestration. Even Yiftah, of seemingly "insignificant stature," reaffirms this historical reality. Moses, in (Deuteronomy 2:29), alludes to the precedent set by "the children of Esau, who live in Seir, [and the Moavites, who live in Ar,]" further solidifying the pattern of denial.

So, what are we left with? A interplay of diplomacy, resentment, and divine will. It's a reminder that even with the best intentions, sometimes, you can't change someone's mind. Sometimes, you're up against something bigger than just a simple disagreement. And perhaps, most importantly, it emphasizes the enduring power of kinship and the responsibility we have to advocate for our own, even when they've wronged us. What does it mean to be a good relative, a good member of a community, even when it's difficult? That's the question this passage leaves us to ponder.

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