I’d like to share an insight I saw about the mistake that got Moshe banned from entering Israel.  I tend to make it often.

The Jewish people wander through the desert, thirsty and impatient. 

“Why did you bring us…to this evil place?  There is no water!” they wail.

Hashem tells Moshe to take his staff, gather the people and speak to a certain rock so that it will give its waters.

The Medrash explains that this was the same rock that miraculously provided water in Miriam’s merit throughout the Jewish people’s travels.  Upon her death, the water ceased.  Now Hashem wanted to resume the water through Moshe’s speech.

But when he speaks to the rock, nothing happens. 

Maybe I have the wrong rock, Moshe reasons.  He speaks to a second rock.  No water.

Over a million Jews are wailing.  G-d’s command rings in his ears.  He’s failing. 

He remembers: G-d once told him to strike a rock with his staff.  He was told to bring the staff along this time, too.  The people are out of control.  It’s true that G-d asked him to speak, but something has to happen. 

So he hits.  Water trickles forth.  Something still needs to happen.  He hits it a second time and now it gushes.

And then G-d says, Because you did not believe in me, you will not come to the land.

Our Sages say that though the intensity of the test was unique to Moshe, the principle applies to all of us.

How many times do I experience an urgency: something’s wrong; I’m failing; the kids are yelling.  I’m generally aware that the path of humility is how things get done and that ignoring that path more often breaks things than fixes them.  Still, there are times where the thought says, “Forget inner wisdom; G-d’s out of reception area.  It’s time to roll up my sleeves and get things done.”

Moshe’s mistake is called a lack of belief because he forgets that there’s only one source for solutions in this world.  A bad solution now is no solution.  A good solution is always present if we’re prepared to wait.

Walking into a Rockland County baseball stadium last night brought back memories of my last trip to a large sports venue.

It was July 2012, when over 90,000 Jews gathered at MetLife Stadium to celebrate the Siyum Hashas, the completion of the global daily Talmud project called Daf Yomi.  This was a smaller venue, it was a baseball stadium, and more importantly, it was not a celebration.  Several thousand people had gathered to pray for the teen hostages in Israel.  But there were similarities.

Both nights were about harnessing Jewish unity.  Both nights adapted the state-of-the-art resources to broadcast a matter of vital importance to the community.   On both nights, a peaceful and dignified atmosphere reigned. 

And though neither event had anything to do with sports, I saw a connection. 

Sports help us understand that life has consequence, that the actions of an individual carry weight, that there is something powerful about aligning our will with a mass of people.  The intensity with which we follow sports points to how deeply we want to know these things.

The Siyum was our Super Bowl of Jewish wisdom, except there was only one team.  The prayer rally became our night to pitch our prayers – literally.  One by one, distinguished rabbis and family members of the hostages walked out of the dugout, stepped up to the podium on the pitcher’s mound, and took turns leading the stadium in prayer. 

Everyone, though subject to distractions, off days, and other ailments, is capable of being an ace and delivering for his team. 

May we merit to take to heart the pain and difficulty facing Yaakov Naftoli ben Rachel Devorah, Gilad Michael ben Bat Galim, and Eyal ben Iris Teshura and their families.

Shabbat Shalom,

Henry Harris

A woman once pondered with a friend why the most significant relationships in our life can arouse so much anger: children, spouses, parents, etc.

“With a newborn I have all the patience in the world,” she complained.   “Why am I capable of becoming a witch with my big ones?”

Her friend paused.  “A newborn only arouses my mercy.   In the presence of others I feel my darker thoughts,” she explained.  “I resent them for reminding me of my selfishness, my impatience, my small-mindedness.” 

This is a wonderful reminder of the inside-out nature of life.  What upsets me always seems to be what I see out there – menacing, beyond my control, an affront to what’s right.  In truth, what arouses my upset is my insecure thinking and my lack of acceptance for that aspect of being human.

This also offers an insight into the story of the spies in this week’s portion.  The spies gather information about the land of Israel before the people’s settling there.  But there conclusions all are dire: it’s a land of scary giants; people are dying everywhere; the population are fierce aggressors.  In short, we’re all going to die if we go.

The Medrash succinctly summarizes G-d’s response: “You have cried a baseless cry.” 

What does “baseless” mean?  They saw giants.  They saw funerals.  They saw war-like fortifications.

Baseless means "weird glasses" - they saw their insecure thinking about those things.  That’s it.  They spoke evil of the land because the land reminded them of their fearfulness.  And they became alarmed and they acted and they succeeded in sewing hysteria in themselves and the nation.

Just understanding the inside-out dimension of our experience can go a long way.  How much humility and compassion are available in remembering how many before me have made the mistake of being activated by their thinking?  How much gratitude is available for this insight?  Giant quantities.

Shabbat Shalom,
Henry Harris   

My three-year-old enjoys his weekly trips grocery shopping.  He doesn’t have much patience, though, for traffic and red lights.

“Can’t we go?” he asks with exasperation as I wait for a light to turn or for the right of way.  We have a destination.   Why aren’t we getting there?

His frustration came to mind as I reviewed the rules of the Jewish people’s travel through the desert in this week’s portion.  A divine cloud accompanied them throughout their journeys.  The basic idea was: when the Divine cloud rested, they set up camp.  When it moved, they moved.  There was no indication of how long it would rest or how long it would move.   Adding to the challenge was that they knew there was a destination (Israel), and that the desert wasn’t it.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch describes this as spiritual grooming.  The people were being introduced to something called trust.  They could think and evaluate, but they could also set that aside and acknowledge the possibility of an understanding beyond their own.    The journey wouldn’t be on their terms.   They might need to interrupt a great journey; they might need to interrupt a great encampment.  And it would be fine.  It would be better – whether they would merit to see it or not.

As I was writing these words late Thursday night, my wife called my cell to ask me to prepare a bottle for the baby.

“She should have it when she wakes up.”

“Right now?” I asked, a trace of annoyance in my voice as I labored to finish my essay.

“Yes,” she said, aware that I’ve forgotten deferred favors in the past.

Then it dawned on me.  It was time to interrupt my encampment.

Shabbat Shalom,

Henry Harris