PARASHAT CHUKAT

By Rav David Silverberg

Parashat Chukat contains the famous and mysterious story of Mei Meriva, where Moshe is instructed by God to speak to a rock in the wilderness to produce water, but Moshe strikes the rock, instead.  God severely punishes Moshe and Aharon for their failure in this regard, and decrees that they would die in the wilderness rather than proceed with Benei Yisrael to the Land of Israel.

            Among the many questions raised concerning this incident is why God had instructed Moshe to speak to a rock.  Why would He ordain such a peculiar display, that the nation’s prophet and leader speak to a rock and ask it to produce water?

             Rav Moshe Feinstein (in the posthumously published Derash Moshe) suggested that the intended event of Moshe speaking to a rock was symbolic of an important educational message that God sought to convey.  Sometimes, when we attempt to guide, instruct or teach those under our charge, we experience the feeling of “speaking to a rock,” that our words come upon deaf ears.  God wanted to demonstrate that even when we “speak to a rock,” when it appears as though our words have no impact, it can eventually “produce water” and yield the desired result.  And certainly, “speaking to the rock” is a far more preferable approach than “hitting the rock,” then trying to convey the message through harsh criticism, censure and condemnation.

            If so, then the symbolism of God’s command to Moshe very closely relates to the general background of the Mei Meriva incident.  When the people voiced their complaints about the lack of water, charging, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to bring us to this bad place,” Moshe felt frustrated.  He responded by calling the people “morim” (“rebellious ones” – 20:10), and the Rambam, in his Shemoneh Perakim, famously points to Moshe’s outburst of anger and frustration as the essence of his wrongdoing in this episode.  Moshe felt that after forty years of living a miraculous existence in the wilderness, there was nothing more that could be done to correct the people’s outlook.  As the nation’s leader and teacher, he felt hopeless.  If after all this time they still did not recognize God’s unlimited power and ability to provide, he thought, then they likely never will.

            God therefore instructed Moshe to speak to the rock – alluding to his responsibility to speak to Benei Yisrael even if it seemed they would not listen.  Rather than fall into despair, Moshe was to continue doing his job of patiently teaching, leading, guiding and educating, with full confidence in the people’s ability to understand.  Even if the sudden water crisis rattled their senses and led them to outwardly question God’s ability to sustain them, Moshe could still walk them through this troubled period with support and sensitivity, until they gradually learned that temporary setbacks and moments of crisis do not signal the absence of Divine Providence.

            According to Rav Moshe, the lesson of Mei Meriva relates to the slow, gradual process of education and growth.  Even those who at present seem impervious to change could, with time and patience, gradually accept, internalize and implement the lessons they are taught.

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            We read in Parashat Chukat of the incident of the nechashim ha-serafim, the venomous snakes that God sent against Benei Yisrael in response to their complaints in the wilderness.  In explaining the reason for God’s choosing this particular punishment for the nation’s grumblings, the Midrash (Bamidbar Rabba 19) comments, “Let the snake, the first to speak lashon ha-ra [negative speech], come and punish those who speak lashon ha-ra.”  Snakes are associated with the snake in Gan Eden that persuaded Chava to partake of the forbidden fruit, and thus serve as the symbol of malicious speech.  God therefore sent snakes against Benei Yisrael as punishment for their complaints about the conditions of travel in the wilderness.  To further support this association between snakes and lashon ha-ra, the Midrash cites a verse from Kohelet (10:8), “One who breaches a fence – a snake will bite him” (“U-foreitz gader yishekhenu nachash”).

            Apparently, the Midrash understood the phrase, “One who breaches a fence” as referring specifically to the sin of lashon ha-ra.  The obvious question arises, why is one who speaks lashon ha-ra described as “breaching a fence”?  In what way does the image of breaking a barrier serve as a suitable metaphor for this misdeed?

            Instinctively, perhaps, we might explain that those who speak lashon ha-ra are guilty of violating the personal space of others, and in this respect they “breach a fence,” extending into the territory of their peers.  People reserve the right to have their private lives remain private, and disseminators of unflattering information about other people violate this right by opening their peers’ private quarters for others to see.  They thus “breach” the “fence” that all people are entitled to erect and maintain around their personal affairs.

            In context, however, this explanation for the snake analogy does not seem plausible.  The Midrash compares here Benei Yisrael’s grumblings in the wilderness and the snake’s successful attempts to lure Chava to sin.  Clearly, Chazal do not refer here to lashon ha-ra in the conventional sense, of speaking negatively about others.  What kind of lashon ha-ra is being discussed, and why is it described as “breaching a fence”?

            The answer, perhaps, is that both Benei Yisrael and the snake were guilty of focusing on what was lacking, rather than on what was provided.  The snake succeeded in drawing Chava’s attention to specifically the single tree from which she was barred.  Rather than seeing all the readily available food in the garden of which she and Adam could partake unlimitedly, Chava instead directed her thoughts toward the tree that God had put off-limits.  The same can be said about Benei Yisrael’s complaints in the wilderness.  Rather than thanking God for the daily miracles through which He sustained them for the past forty years, they instead complained that “there is no bread and there is no water,” and expressed their “disgust” for the “miserable bread” – the manna (21:5).  Like Chava in Eden, Benei Yisrael focused their attention on what they didn’t have, rather than enjoying and feeling grateful and content over what they did have.

            This may explain the image of “poreitz gader” – breaching a fence.  The lashon ha-ra spoken of by the Midrash involves looking beyond one’s boundaries, the constant desire to expand one’s lot.  Chazal refer here to speaking negatively not about other people, but rather about one’s life, and the many blessings that he enjoys – or that he should enjoy but chooses not to.  The Midrash accuses such a person of “poreitz gader,” of resenting the boundaries that surround his property and endlessly seeking to expand it.  Chazal urge us to focus on the many accessible “trees” that we have in our “gardens,” to feel grateful for all that we have been given, rather than resent whatever “trees” still remain off-limits to us.

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            We read in Parashat Chukat of the famous incident of Mei Meriva, where Moshe and Aharon disobeyed God and were punished by being denied the privilege of entering Eretz Yisrael along with the rest of the nation.  The Torah concludes the Mei Meriva narrative by stating, “Those were the waters of Meriva, where the Israelites fought against the Lord, and He was sanctified through them” (20:13).

            The commentators disagree in explaining the pronoun “them” at the end of this verse.  The Ramban explains that the Torah refers to Benei Yisrael, all of whom witnessed the rock produce water.  Moshe’s smiting the rock in the wilderness to produce water “sanctified” God by publicizing to all Benei Yisrael His unlimited power.  The phrase, “He was sanctified through them,” according to the Ramban, thus means that God was “sanctified” in the presence of all Benei Yisrael.

            Others, including Chizkuni, Seforno and the Rashbam, explain this verse to mean that God was sanctified through the water that emerged from the rock, which demonstrated His power and might.

            The Pesikta Zutreta, however, understood “them” as a reference to Moshe and Aharon.  God was sanctified through Moshe and Aharon in the sense that He did not excuse their wrongdoing on account of their spiritual stature.  Mortal rulers often show greater flexibility and compassion in dealing with crimes committed by their close confidants and loyal followers.  God showed no such favoritism in response to Moshe and Aharon’s wrongdoing.  However one understands Moshe and Aharon’s sin in this incident – a subject which is, of course, subject to much discussion and debate – it is clear that they were strictly punished.  The many great achievements they had to their credit did not help them escape divine retribution, and they were not treated with “favored status” even though they were the most righteous personalities in the nation.  This incident thus “sanctified” God by demonstrating the impeccable fairness and objectivity of His judgment, which show no favoritism to even His closest followers.

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, adds that the Pesikta Zutreti’s comments may emphasize the severity with which God looks upon disrespect shown to Benei Yisrael.  Moshe and Aharon were guilty of reacting angrily to the people under circumstances that did not warrant anger.  Rather than showing sensitivity and patience, Moshe and Aharon responded with anger.  Even if this anger was minimal, God severely punished Moshe and Aharon for failing to show Benei Yisrael the dignity and respect they deserve as God’s nation.  Notwithstanding their occasional failings, Am Yisrael are God’s treasured people whose leaders must treat them and speak to them as such.  When it comes to the honor owed to Benei Yisrael, the Yalkut Yehuda comments, God shows little flexibility, and even righteous leaders like Moshe and Aharon are severely punished for speaking to and of God’s people with anything less than honor and respect.

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            The first section of Parashat Chukat presents the basic laws relevant to tum’at meit, the status of ritual impurity transmitted by a human corpse.  People who touch a corpse or come under the same roof as a corpse obtain a status called av ha-tum’a, which forbids them from entering the Beit Ha-mishkan and partaking of sacrifices, and enables them to transmit tum’a status to other people and utensils through contact.  A person who touches an av ha-tum’a is called a rishon le-tum’a, and although this status forbids one from entering the Mikdash, a rishon le-tum’a does not transmit the tum’a to other people or utensils.

            In presenting the halakha concerning a person who touches a human corpse, the Torah gives the example of a “chalal cherev” – a person who fell by the sword on the battlefield (19:16).  The Sages (Nazir 53b) derive from this phrase the principle of “cherev harei hu ke-chalal” – “the sword is like the dead person.”  This halakha establishes that when a sword is thrust into a person and kills him, the sword attains the same status as the corpse.  This means that one who touches the sword becomes an av ha-tum’a, just as one who touches the corpse.  Unlike a human being who touches a corpse, who attains a lower status of tum’a than the corpse (as discussed above), the sword’s status is identical to that of the corpse itself.  This principle actually applies not only to the sword, but to all metal utensils.  Any metal utensil that touches a corpse (or is under the same roof as a corpse) is capable of transmitting the status of av ha-tum’a, just like the corpse itself.  (According to the Rambam, in Hilkhot Tum’at Meit 5:3, this halakha applies to all utensils, regardless of their material, with the exception of earthenware.)

            We might inquire into the possible symbolic significance of this halakha.  Is there any message underlying the parity established between the utensil and the corpse?  More specifically, we might explore the possible significance of Chazal’s terminology in formulating this rule – “cherev harei hu ke-chalal,” equating the sword with its victim.

            Rav Soloveitchik famously explained the concept of tum’at meit as reflecting the Jewish attitude toward death as something which defiles:

Death, the Torah tells us, has a contaminating effect; contact with it disqualifies us from entering the Temple and from participating in other matters of holiness.  Death is a mocking fate which awaits us all, a trauma of human helplessness which disturbs our existential serenity.  It is an absurdity which undoes all of man’s rational planning, his dreams and hopes. 

(Man of Faith in the Modern World, p. 102)

The status of impurity that results from encountering a human corpse represents the tension and anxiety that invariably fill a person during and after such an encounter.  A person who has become tamei may not enter the Temple because he cannot experience the vitality, exuberance and sense of meaning required in the Mikdash.  The encounter with death leaves a person shaken and cynical, thus disqualifying him from experiencing God’s presence in the Temple.

            Possibly, the concept of “cherev harei hu ke-chalal” teaches that an encounter with the cherev – the murder weapon – yields the same effect as an encounter with the chalal – the murder victim.  Just as the sight of death, as Rav Soloveitchik describes, “disturbs our existential serenity,” the sight of the weapon that caused death similarly rattles our feeling of ease and confidence in life and in the world.  The sight of the cherev has a chilling effect upon us, which causes “defilement,” the status of tum’at meit.  It symbolizes the very opposite of the ideals that must characterize human existence on earth, and such a sight is thus no less unsettling than the sight of death itself.  If the encounter with a corpse causes tum’a by disturbing our sense of comfort and confidence in our lives, the encounter with a murder weapon causes tum’a by disturbing our sense of confidence in mankind and threatens to shatter our optimism and hopes for a perfect world.

            The halakhic application of this rule, as mentioned, extends to all metal utensils, and not merely to murder weapons.  At its core, however, the notion of “cherev harei hu ke-chalal” perhaps relates to the equally unnerving sights of the victim and the weapon – both of which “contaminate” by rattling the sense of confidence and serenity that is required to properly experience kedusha.

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            Among the episodes related in Parashat Chukat is the famous and puzzling incident of Mei Meriva, during which Moshe and Aharon betrayed God and were punished by being denied entry into Eretz Yisrael.  The commentators discuss this narrative at great length in an attempt to identify the precise nature of Moshe and Aharon’s wrongdoing.  While it is most commonly believed (as Rashi explains, commenting to 20:12) that the sin lies in Moshe’s hitting, as opposed to speaking to, the rock to produce water for the nation, several sources indicate otherwise.  The Midrash (Devarim Rabba 2), for example, comments, “On account of a single sin on Moshe’s record – that he censured Your children and said to them, ‘Listen, now, O rebellious ones!’ (20:10), You punished and censured him…”  This passage in the Midrash forms the basis of the approach taken by a number of commentators (in varying forms) pointing to the words spoken by Moshe and Aharon in this episode as the sin for which they were punished.  They inappropriately criticized Benei Yisrael, calling them “morim” (“rebellious ones”), and for this they were severely punished.

            If, indeed, we focus on the element of tokhecha – criticism or rebuke – as the core of Moshe and Aharon’s wrongdoing, then we must explain how the tokhecha expressed at Mei Meriva differed from the other instances where Moshe criticized the nation.  Moshe devotes the majority of the first chapters of Sefer Devarim to censuring the people for their disobedience during their years of wandering in the wilderness.  His tone in Sefer Devarim, at times, is no less harsh than his exclamation of “Shim’u na ha-morim” before hitting the rock.  Why is he taken to task for his condemnation of Benei Yisrael at the rock, but not for the criticism he expressed before his death, in Sefer Devarim?

            The most obvious answer, perhaps, is that the validity and value of criticism depends, to a large extent, on timing and context.   The lectures of Parashat Devarim were presented in the final weeks of Moshe’s life, when it was known that he would soon pass on, and the people would expect and even eagerly anticipate his final words of instruction.  The situation at Mei Meriva, however, is described by the Torah as a “fight” (“va-yarev ha-am” – 20:3).  The people were agitated, and tensions were high.  This was no time for criticism and rebuke.  Indeed, God instructed Moshe to speak only to the rock, and not to the people.  They would not be receptive to any words of censure so long as the fires of controversy raged.  Perhaps after water was provided and calm was restored, Moshe could then speak to the people about their mistake and why they were wrong for questioning him.  But during the heat of controversy and discord, these messages would almost certainly fall upon deaf ears.

            Additionally, at Mei Meriva the nation confronted a situation of grave crisis.  The miraculous well that had accompanied the people for nearly forty years suddenly dried.  Benei Yisrael were struck by anxiety and panic.  Situations of stress are not the occasion for criticism, well-intended and otherwise constructive as it may be.  For this reason, for example, the Midrash frowns upon Yaakov’s angry retort to Rachel after she expressed her frustration over her infertility (Bereishit 30:2).  Rachel spoke out of distress and despair, and Yaakov should have responded with patience and sensitivity.  Similarly, at Mei Meriva, although the people spoke to Moshe with crass disrespect and ingratitude, this was not the time to reprimand them.  Criticism may have been warranted after the new well was opened and the people felt calm and reassured.  At that point, they would perhaps be receptive to criticism and recognize their mistake.  But moments of stress and anxiety are not the time for offering criticism; such circumstances warrant patience, sensitivity and understanding, and delaying whatever criticism is deemed necessary until the tensions subside.

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            The Torah in Parashat Chukat (21:13) tells of Benei Yisrael’s encampment along Nachal Arnon, a stream that formed the border between the nations of Moav and Emori, and of the miracle that occurred at that site.  Rashi explains that the Emorites had planned to ambush Benei Yisrael as they traveled through the Arnon valley, and they waited in the hills on either side of the valley armed with weapons.  God rescued Benei Yisrael by merging the hills, crushing the ambushers.

            This account is taken from the Gemara in Masekhet Berakhot (54a-b), which adds one more detail concerning the miracle of Nachal Arnon.  The Gemara tells that when the hills retreated to their places, the blood of the Emorites flowed into the Arnon stream, behind Benei Yisrael.  The blood was sighted by two metzora’im – men who had contracted the tzara’at skin ailment and were thus required to travel outside the Israelite camp.  They informed the rest of the people, and Benei Yisrael sang praise to the Almighty for the great miracle He had performed.

            This incident, as related in the Gemara, immediately brings to mind the story of the four metzora’im and the siege of Shomron, which we read in Sefer Melakhim II (chapter 6).  The Aramean army, led by the hostile king Ben Haddad, encamped outside the city of Shomron, the capital of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, and starvation gradually spread through the city’s inhabitants.  The four metzora’im, who were languishing in hunger outside the city’s walls, decided to go to the enemy camp and plead for food, rather than die of starvation in isolation.  When they arrived at the camp, they found it deserted.  God had created a thunderous, deafening noise to mislead the Aramean troops into thinking that the Israelite king had hired foreign militias to attack them.  The Arameans fled, leaving behind their food and provisions.  The metzora’im sent word back to Shomron, and the people stormed the enemy camp to save themselves from starvation.

            In both contexts, God performed a miracle to save Benei Yisrael from invaders, but the miracle occurred without the people knowing.  It was only a small group of metzora’im, whose status required them to live in isolation outside the camp/city, who took note of the miracle and then informed the rest of the people.  (Of course, the stories differ from one another in that the miracle of Nachal Arnon occurred without the people knowing that a threat was even posed, as opposed to the siege of Shomron, where the people were well aware of the crisis, but were unaware of the miraculous salvation.)

            What might be the underlying significance of this model – supernatural deliverance brought about without the people’s knowledge, eventually discovered by a group of isolated metzora’im?

            Perhaps, these events convey the message that we cannot fully appreciate the extent of God’s ongoing protection while living “inside the camp.”  As we go about our daily routine, we are unaware of the many significant events taking place beyond our sight that directly impact upon us.  Preoccupied as we are, and as we must be, with our responsibilities and obligations “inside the city,” in our homes, professions and communities, we cannot see everything that transpires “outside the city” under God’s watchful eye.  Often, it is only the metzora’im, those who take a step back from the daily routine and move “outside the city,” who are able to see the many different ways in which God works to protect His nation.

            The miracles of Nachal Arnon and Shomron thus remind us that our debt of gratitude to the Almighty extends well beyond that which we are able to see and experience firsthand.  Much of what He does for us occurs outside our range of vision, and He helps us in innumerable ways – often without us ever knowing.

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            The opening section of Parashat Chukat presents the laws relevant to the para aduma, the red heifer whose ashes were used to divest a person of his status of tum’at meit – ritual impurity attained through contact with a human corpse.  Rashi, in his concluding comments to this section (19:22), famously cites Rav Moshe Ha-darshan as associating the para aduma with the sin of the golden calf.  Just as a mother cleans the mess caused by her child, similarly, the para aduma – a cow – serves to “clean,” to atone for, the “mess” made by the young calf – the sin of the eigel ha-zahav.  These comments of Rashi have led many writers to suggest different approaches to explain more precisely the relationship between the para aduma and the sin of the golden calf.

            One answer might lie in a different passage that connects the sin of the calf with the impurity of death.  The Gemara in Masekhet Avoda Zara (5a) establishes that had the sin of the golden calf not occurred, Benei Yisrael would have lived eternally, and would have never died.  This comment likely relates to another Talmudic passage (Shabbat 146a and elsewhere) that speaks of the elimination of Adam and Chava’s “zuhama” (“filth”), or spiritual defects, at the time when the Torah was received.  The experience of Matan Torah eliminated the effects of Adam and Chava’s sin, such that Benei Yisrael were no longer subject to the sinful drives and desires that were injected into mankind after the sin in Eden.  By the same token, it seems, this experience reversed the curse of death that was decreed upon humanity in the wake of that sin.  But these effects of Matan Torah, the Gemara states, were lost as a result of the golden calf.  Although Benei Yisrael repented and earned atonement for that grave misdeed, they never returned to the pristine, primordial condition that had been achieved prior to the sin.

            Herein, perhaps, lies the basis of the association drawn between the para aduma and the golden calf.  The para aduma functions to restore the state of ritual impurity that is lost through contact with death.  In this sense, the para aduma works as the antidote, as it were, to death, and thus reverses the effects of the golden calf, which plunged Benei Yisrael back into a condition of mortality.

            In truth, this association runs even deeper.  When we consider the spiritual effects of Matan Torah and the golden calf, as described above, the obvious question arises as to how Benei Yisrael committed this grave offense once they had been purged of their “zuhama.”  If they were feed of sinful impulses, how was sin possible?  The answer emerges from an earlier passage in Masekhet Avoda Zara (4b), which states that Benei Yisrael were enabled to commit this wrong “in order to offer an opening to penitent sinners.”  The atonement that Benei Yisrael earned after repenting for the golden calf set the precedent and example that subsequent sinners must follow in their quest for absolution.  That Benei Yisrael could regain God’s favor after the betrayal of the eigel ha-zahav demonstrates the “opening” that God makes available to all who seek to improve and repent.  God therefore enabled this sin to happen so that this inspiring example of repentance would be established.

            Apparently, God did not want a world without “zuhama,” a world without the constant internal struggle that is so much a part of, and may even characterize, religious life.  He allowed chet ha-eigel to happen in order to demonstrate that Torah life is not about perfection, but about the struggle to reach perfection.  Each individual, like Benei Yisrael at Sinai, will experience spiritual failures requiring repentance.  All of us will occasionally contract “impurities” of one kind of another that we must work to eliminate.  For reasons which we cannot know, the Almighty preferred imperfect human beings striving for perfection over perfect human beings who have nothing more for which to strive.  He therefore enabled chet ha-eigel, so that the “zuhama” would be restored and the constant struggle for perfection would be renewed.

            This is the “mess” which the para aduma comes to “clean.”  The process of tum’a and tahara symbolizes the possibility of overcoming spiritual failure and perfecting spiritual flaws.  The impurity of death, like the impurity of sin, is endemic to human existence.  And just as the para aduma affords us the opportunity to rid ourselves of the impurity of death, so are we always given the opportunity to “purify” ourselves from the effects of sin, and continually grow and inch closer toward spiritual perfection.

(Based on an article by Rav Eliyahu Baruch Shulman, at www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/706203/Rabbi_Eli_Baruch_Shulman/Drosho_for_Chukas_5762)