The Midrash, specifically Bamidbar Rabbah 19, poses a fascinating question: Why isn’t Moses, the leader who struck the rock and brought forth water, mentioned in the song of praise? And why isn't God's name mentioned either?

The answer, at least according to the Midrash, is layered with symbolism. It suggests that Moses wasn't mentioned because he was "punished by means of water." The Midrash states, "...a person does not laud his executioner." Harsh. It's a stark reminder that even our greatest leaders are subject to divine judgment.

But what about God's absence from the song? Here, the Midrash uses a powerful analogy: imagine a ruler preparing a feast for the king. But the king asks, "Is my close friend there?" And when he learns that the friend is absent, he declares, "I too will not go there." Similarly, the Midrash suggests that God’s presence is intertwined with Moses’s. If Moses isn’t celebrated, neither is He. It's a poignant illustration of the deep connection between God and his faithful servant.

The narrative then shifts to the well itself. The verse in Numbers (21:18) says, “A well that princes dug, that the nobles of the people excavated.” But did they actually dig? The Midrash offers a different interpretation. It wasn't physical digging, but rather a gift bestowed upon them due to the merit of the patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. "He opened a rock and water flowed.… For He remembered His sacred word to Abraham His servant," we find in Psalms (105:41–42). These forefathers, the "princes," paved the way for this miraculous provision.

Imagine this: the princes stood atop the well, drawing water with their staffs, each for their tribe and family. And the water flowed so powerfully that it filled the space between the banners of the tribes. According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, women could even travel between encampments by boat! The verse "They went batziyot in the river" (Psalms 105:41) is interpreted, in this context, to mean they traveled in ships (tziyot).

The water wasn't just for drinking, though. It surrounded the camp, creating a lush oasis in the barren wilderness. "He leads me in circles of righteousness for His name’s sake," sings the Psalmist (23:3), and "He lies me down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters" (23:2). All thanks to this miraculous well.

The Midrash continues, "And from the wilderness to Matana…" Matana means "a gift" in Hebrew. Why was this gift given in the wilderness, specifically? The Midrash offers a powerful explanation: to ensure equality. If the Torah – because that's what the Midrash sees in the gift, the Torah – had been given in the Land of Israel, one tribe might claim precedence. But in the wilderness, everyone is equal.

There's more! The wilderness, untamed and uncultivated, becomes a metaphor for the life of a Torah scholar. Just as the wilderness is free from the burdens of cultivation and taxation, so too, one who dedicates themselves to Torah is freed from the yoke of worldly concerns. The one who truly sustains the Torah, it suggests, is the one who "conducts himself like a wilderness and withdraws himself from everything."

Finally, the Midrash connects the journey of the well to the three courts in Jerusalem that interpreted the Torah: the Sanhedrin. "And from Matana to Naḥaliel, and from Naḥaliel to Bamot." Naḥaliel, we are told, can be read as "the portion [naḥalat] of God [El]." This represents the Sanhedrin on the Temple Mount, while Bamot, which can refer to an altar, represents the Sanhedrin in the Courtyard, alongside the altar. The third is in the Chamber of Hewn Stone, in the area of Ruth, who came from the field of Moav.

And what about the well itself? The Midrash says it accompanied them until it entered the Sea of Tiberias. From atop Mount Nevo, one can see it in the sea, "like an oven full."

So, what does it all mean? This passage from Bamidbar Rabbah isn’t just a history lesson. It’s a meditation on leadership, divine presence, the importance of Torah study, and the pursuit of equality. It reminds us that even in moments of celebration, there are deeper currents flowing beneath the surface, currents that connect us to our past, our traditions, and our relationship with the Divine. And sometimes, the most profound lessons are found not in what is said, but in what is left unsaid.