Returning with the Fruit of Canaan

This week’s Torah portion, Shelach (Numbers 13 – 15), describes yet another dramatic, pivotal moment in the sojourn of the people of Israel from Egypt to Canaan.

Soon after the people of Israel leave Sinai on their way East, Moses is instructed to send scouts to tour the land of Canaan:

שְׁלַח לְךָ אֲנָשִׁים וְיָתֻרוּ אֶת אֶרֶץ כְּנַעַן אֲשֶׁר אֲנִי נֹתֵן לִבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אִישׁ אֶחָד אִישׁ אֶחָד לְמַטֵּה אֲבֹתָיו תִּשְׁלָחוּ כֹּל נָשִׂיא בָהֶם:

Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send one man from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them.” (Numbers 13:2).

That makes perfect sense: the newly liberated slaves, who have just received the Torah, are asked to walk towards an unknown land led by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, walking into an unknown future. Sending their most reliable representatives ahead of them to scout the new land they are about to habit is a good idea. Those men, it is assumed, will then report of their journey, thereby giving the wilderness travelers a goal to strive towards which will sustain them during the long, arduous journey.

But as almost always in the Bible (and in life), things don’t go according to script. The scouts return, and confirm that the new land is “a land of milk and honey.” They even bring back some of its delicious fruit for the people to see and taste. But the message that ten of the twelve scouts convey is grim: the people living in Canaan, they report, are giants, and the people of Israel will stand no chance against them.

What ensues is a massive demoralization of the whole community.

וַתִּשָּׂא כָּל הָעֵדָה וַיִּתְּנוּ אֶת קוֹלָם וַיִּבְכּוּ הָעָם בַּלַּיְלָה הַהוּא: וַיִּלֹּנוּ עַל מֹשֶׁה וְעַל אַהֲרֹן כֹּל בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֲלֵהֶם כָּל הָעֵדָה לוּ מַתְנוּ בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם אוֹ בַּמִּדְבָּר הַזֶּה לוּ מָתְנוּ: וְלָמָה יְהוָה מֵבִיא אֹתָנוּ אֶל הָאָרֶץ הַזֹּאת לִנְפֹּל בַּחֶרֶב נָשֵׁינוּ וְטַפֵּנוּ יִהְיוּ לָבַז הֲלוֹא טוֹב לָנוּ שׁוּב מִצְרָיְמָה: וַיֹּאמְרוּ אִישׁ אֶל אָחִיו נִתְּנָה רֹאשׁ וְנָשׁוּבָה מִצְרָיְמָה:

The whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept that night. All the Israelites railed against Moses and Aaron. “If only we had died in the land of Egypt,” the whole community shouted at them, “or if only we might die in this wilderness! Why Y-H-W-H taking us to that land to fall by the sword? Our wives and children will be carried off! It would be better for us to go back to Egypt!” And they said to one another, “Let us head back for Egypt.” (Numbers 14:1-4)

Y-H-W-H’s response is fierce. At first, he intends to kill the entire ungrateful lot and start anew. As before, Moses acts as an appeaser, and God relents with the famous words:

וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה סָלַחְתִּי כִּדְבָרֶךָ:

And Y-H-W-H says: “I pardon, as you have asked.” (Numbers 14:20)

But God does inflict a severe punishment: none of the people who have left Egypt as adults, i.e., who were above the age of twenty when the Exodus occurred, would actually make it into Canaan. The people of Israel will wonder in the wilderness for 40 years until the last person who has left Egypt as an adult dies out. The only exceptions: Joshua son of Nun and Caleb son of Jephuneh, two of the twelve spies, the only ones who tried to dissuade the people from turning their back on their mission.

Surely, this is not the first time in the story that the Israelites respond with whining and qwetching when faced with a real or imaginary difficulty. And on the face of it, the sin of the Golden Calf, which was a blunt violation of the first commandment right after it has been given, did not meet with such a response. So why such a strict response now?

The transgression of the scouts seems to be of a different nature altogether: It’s the sin of disbelief in the possibility of a miraculous outcome. The worse sin in Judaism, said Rabbi Michael Lerner, is the insistence that the presence is an indication of what is possible in the future; doubting the possibility of the emergence of something miraculously new. Such an attitude amounts to a denial of God.

Everything in nature bears the mark of such a miraculous emergence. For close to 14 billion years, by present calculations, molecules emerged out of atoms; self-replicating molecules emerged out of ordinary molecules; simple cells emerged out of a primordial soup of ingredients; specialized cells emerged, which led to the emergence of complex eukaryotic cells—and from them to multi-cellular organisms; and so forth.

From the point of view of each stage of the process, the emergence of the next step was unpredictable and miraculous. Nothing about fish predicts the emergence of life on dry land; nothing about reptiles predicts the emergence of mammals; nothing about apes predicts the emergence of human culture. And yet, stage after unpredictable miraculous stage, the process unfolds with awesome wonder.

Why is this possible? Why is this happening? From a religious point of view, it is because the Divine is everywhere. “There is no spot where He is not” says the Zohar. Or as this week’s Parasha expresses it:

וְיִמָּלֵא כְבוֹד יְהוָה אֶת כָּל הָאָרֶץ:

As Y-H-W-H’s presence fills the whole earth. (Numbers 14:21).

Denying the possibility of miraculous emergence, in the face of repeated demonstration of its emergence, is the gravest sin. It is what determines whether one remains a slave or starts to move towards freedom.

* * *

Like all the stories in the Torah, the story of the scouts is about us. Particularly those of us who have had spiritual insights and who have directly perceived the miraculous. To what extent do we have the guts and heart to be true to the miraculous nature of what we have seen, so that we can bear witness to the Divine Omnipresence even when the going gets tough?

In Jesus’ last supper, he predicted that Peter, whom he called the “rock [upon which] I will build my church,” would betray him three times before the cock calls. And so it was: when the soldiers came, Peter forgot all the miracles and all his love for his master, and he succumbed to fear. Such was the sind of the spies.

Learning the Bible stories at school, I always wondered why the Israelites were so dumb. I was sure, that had I been there, I certainly would have made the right choices in all these obvious cases. But the truth is, that as we traverse the wilderness that is called “Life”, we are constantly challenged to be true to what we know to be the highest and to bear witness to God, even in the face of enormous challenges. The story of the scouts is the story of us.

Yeshayahu Leibowitz

The last part of the weekly Torah portion of naso (Numbers 4:21-7:89), which is the longest portion in the Torah, is an elaborate and long description of the inauguration of ohel mo’ed, the “Tent of the Meeting” (the tabernacle)—the “place” where Moses “hears” the voice of God and receives the instructions.

Let’s remind ourselves: the first time we hear about the Tabernacle is in the Torah portion of trumah, which opens with God’s instruction to Moses:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם:

“They shall make me a tabernacle, and I will dwell within them.” (Exodus 25:8)

As a number of Hassidic rabbis commentators remarked: “within them” should be understood as “within each and every one of them.” Thus, the construction of the tabernacle can also be interpreted as opening up a sacred space within oneself for God to dwell within (or, rather, for realizing that God has been dwelling within all along).

The very last verse of this week’s portion seems to echo this understanding. It says:

וּבְבֹא מֹשֶׁה אֶל אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לְדַבֵּר אִתּוֹ וַיִּשְׁמַע אֶת הַקּוֹל מִדַּבֵּר אֵלָיו מֵעַל הַכַּפֹּרֶת אֲשֶׁר עַל אֲרֹן הָעֵדֻת מִבֵּין שְׁנֵי הַכְּרֻבִים וַיְדַבֵּר אֵלָיו:

When Moses went into the Tent of the Meeting to speak with Him, he would hear the Voice speaking to him from above the cover that was on top of the Ark of the Pact between the two cherubim; thus He spoke to him. (Numbers 7:89)

The key words here are “speaking to him”, which in Hebrew are middaber eilav. From the context one would assume that “speaking to him” means God speaking to Moses, as indeed most translators have assumed.

But that is not what the Hebrew says. As Rashi points out, middaber (מִדַּבֵּר), while spelled the same as medaber (מְדַבֵּר), is in a grammatically different form—the reflexive form of hitpa’el. This means that the “him” in the expression “the Voice speaking to him” is not Moses, but God himself.

Here are Rashi’s own words:

מדבר. כמו מתדבר, כבודו של מעלה לומר כן, מדבר בינו לבין עצמו ומשה שומע מאליו:

“…speaking to him: Heb. מִדַּבֵּר. [This form] is [grammatically] the same as מִתְדַּבֵּר [the reflexive form, meaning] “speaking to himself.” It is out of reverence for the Most High to express it in this manner. [God] speaks to Himself, and Moses hears it spontaneously.”

One of Israel’s preeminent Judaic scholar and teachers, the late Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz, noted in response: “This not an acoustic event, in which a voice [or a sound, kol] reaches Moses, but rather a process within Moses’ consciousness, who… hears God speaking to Himself within Himself.” And he also points out that with this radical interpretation of the text, Rashi preempts Maimonides’ theory of prophecy by about two hundred years.

Indeed, the tabernacle is that sacred space within where a prophet can “hear” the voice of God. And we are all called to do that. Moses said, “Would that all of Y‑H‑V‑H’s people were prophets, and Y‑H‑V‑H put His spirit upon them.” (Numbers 11:29). We each are called to erect that sacred space, that Tent of the Meeting, within ourselves.

Thus, the construction of the Tabernacle can be seen as a meditative process. We create the sacred space within oneself through loosening our grip on our thoughts, loosening our grips on the inner noise, letting everything be and just BE—thereby giving that kol dmama daka, the “sound of subtle silence” (also known as “still small voice”) to be heard.

What a perfect subject of contemplation before Shavu’ot.

* * *

Leibowitz points out that the only translator of the Bible who noted this grammatical form of middaber and translated correctly was Martin Luther. In his German Bible he translated it as “redend zu sich” (speaking to himself). Leibowitz wonders, could Luther have been familiar with Rashi?

And another German teacher, although much earlier than Luther, who understood God’s speech as an something that occurs within one’s consciousness was Meister Eckhart (1260 – 1327). See previous mention, on the commentaries of both Acharey Mot and Beshalach.

Pierre Teilhard_de_Chardin

This week’s Torah portion, bamidbar (Numbers 1:1-4:20), is the first Torah reading in a book of the same name (referred to in English as Numbers). The word bamidbar (במדבר) means “In the wilderness”.

Wilderness is the backdrop of most of the Torah. It is where all the drama of the people of Israel as a people, as opposed to a family, takes place. And it unfolds in the space of 40 years, after which, supposedly, our forefathers crossed the Jordan river and entered the Promised Land.

But have we really left the wilderness? Have we really entered the Promised Land?

Think about it. For thousands of years, every Simchat Torah we start reading the Torah from the beginning, from the Torah portion of Bereshit. And after fifty weeks or so, towards the end of the cycle, we read the last chapter of the Torah, Deuteronomy 34, in which we find a powerful image: Moses goes up to mount Nevo, from which he has a view of the land of Canaan, and, Y-H-V-H tells him:

זֹאת הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּעְתִּי לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב לֵאמֹר לְזַרְעֲךָ אֶתְּנֶנָּה הֶרְאִיתִיךָ בְעֵינֶיךָ וְשָׁמָּה לֹא תַעֲבֹר:

“This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, saying, ‘I will assign it to your offspring.’ I have let you see it with your own eyes, but you shall not cross there.” (Deuteronomy 34:4).

Moses passes away, the Torah ends, and we start from the beginning. The entry into the land of Canaan, which is described in the book of Joshua, is not part of Jewish life cycle.

Notice also that God is not referred to in the Torah as “the God who took you into the land of Canaan.” He is only referred to as the one who took the people of Israel out of Egypt. As, for example, in the first of the Ten Commandments:

אָנֹכִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִיךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִבֵּית עֲבָדִים.

I, Y-H-V-H, am your god who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage. (Exodus 20:2)

The Promised Land is spoken of as something to prepare for, something that will happen in the future. In the book of Deuteronomy Moses repeatedly uses the expression-

…עַל הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר אַתֶּם עֹבְרִים אֶת הַיַּרְדֵּן שָׁמָּה לְרִשְׁתָּהּ.

…the land that you are to possess upon crossing the Jordan. (Deuteronomy 32:47).

We are out of Egypt; getting into Canaan is something that is going to happen in the future; so where are we now? In the wilderness.

What is this condition, that we call it “the wilderness?” We are no longer in mitzrayim (מצרים), a word which means Egypt but literally means duality of boundaries. And you are not yet in Canaan, the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey, a land of heaven on earth, although you long for it, you yearn for it, you are oriented towards it, you are informed by it, you move towards it.

You can never really get there. We are told that the people of Israel had to stay in the desert for 40 years until the last person who was a grown up when they had left Egypt—the last person who still had slavery to programmed in them—dies out. Only those who were one-pointedly and wholly to freedom and to the One, who had no trace of duality in them, were fit to cross into the Holy Land. May I suggest, that we are still waiting for those people to arise.

The human condition is not perfect. Perfect saints exist in Renaissance paintings. We all have the devil in us as well. That is what makes it interesting: because even though are bodies are firmly rooted on earth, our consciousness is grounded in Heaven and we can abide in that heaven right now. But we cannot deny duality, we cannot deny our body, we cannot deny those aspects of our lives that constantly pull us towards mitzrayim, towards the duality of boundaries.

So we are here in this in-between land, the land of bamidbar. This is where our unique drama unfolds. We were given an awesome task: the partake in the task of the creator, of moving creation towards more and more consciousness, towards higher and higher order. And how do we do that? As God tells Cain:

לַפֶּתַח חַטָּאת רֹבֵץ וְאֵלֶיךָ תְּשׁוּקָתוֹ וְאַתָּה תִּמְשָׁל בּוֹ:

Sin couches at the door; his urge is toward you, yet you can be the master. (Genesis 4:7)

You still have Egypt in you, it still exerts its pull, but you can make a choice. And that choice has cosmic implication, it is the most direct way towards tikkun ‘olam, towards the repair of the world. This is our task here on earth.

* * *

But does it make sense to aspire towards an elusive Holy Land which one can never reach? I’d like to bring one modern answer to this conundrum, that of the great French scientist, philosopher, theologian and educator, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955). He conceived of the idea of the Omega Point. Omega, of course, is that last letter in the Greek alphabet, which is why Jesus says in the Book of Revelation: “I am the alpha and the omega, the First and the Last.” (Revelation 22:13)

In Teilhard de Chardin’s theory of evolution, the universe perpetually evolves towards higher levels of material complexity and consciousness, starting from simple inanimate matter and culminating, thus far, in us, humans (emphasis on “thus far”). The Omega Point was for him the ultimate point of complexity and consciousness which acts as an attractor, as a point that the universe constantly evolves towards. It is both transcendent and real, and acts as an imperative—everything must evolve towards it, it cannot be undone, and its very existence exerts an irresistible pull on the whole physical matter.

I propose that the same is true of the idea of the Holy Land, the Promised Land. That land does not exist in time and space. The world we live in, the physical world, is the world of the wilderness. The Promised Land, a very real but transcendent concept, is something we can see, we can aspire for, but cannot cross towards. Yet its existence has had a transformative cohesive influence on the Jewish people for thousands of years.

So yes, we are still bamidbar, in the wilderness, in the desert. And that is the good news. Because in choosing to align ourselves with the move towards the Promised Land and away from mitzrayim, away from bondage, we are co-creators of a better world. This is Tikkun Olam at its best. And from a certain perspective, that is what we came here to do.