The Torah and the Jewish People: An Ever-Repeated Story
Bamidbar, our parsha this week, takes up the story where we left it at the end of Shemot. The Jewish people had journeyed from Egypt to Mount Sinai. There they received the Torah. There they made the Golden Calf. There they were forgiven after Moses’ passionate plea, and there they made the Mishkan — the Tabernacle — which was inaugurated on the first of Nissan, almost a year after the exodus. Now, one month later, on the first day of the second month, they are ready to move on to the second part of the journey — from Sinai to the Promised Land.
Yet there is a curious delay in the narrative. Ten chapters pass until the Israelites actually begin to travel (Num. 10:33). First, there is a census. Then there is an account of the arrangement of the tribes around the Ohel Moed, the Tent of Meeting. Then there is a long account of the Levites, their families and respective roles. Then there are laws about the purity of the camp, restitution, the sotah, the woman suspected of adultery and the Nazirite. Then a lengthy series of passages describe the final preparations for the journey. Only then do they set out.
So, the obvious question is: Why this long series of seeming digressions?
It is easy to think of the Torah as simply telling events as they occurred, interspersed with various commandments. According to this view, the Torah is history plus law. “This is what happened, these are the rules we must obey, and there is a connection between them, sometimes clear (as in the case of laws accompanied by a reminder that ‘you were slaves in Egypt’), sometimes less so.”
But the Torah is not mere history as a sequence of events. The Torah is about the truths that emerge through time. That is one of the great differences between ancient Israel and ancient Greece.
Ancient Greece sought truth by contemplating nature and reason. The first gave rise to science, the second to philosophy. Ancient Israel found truth in history, in events — and what God told us to learn from them. Science is about nature, Judaism is about human nature and there is a great difference between them.
Nature knows nothing about free will. Scientists often deny that it exists at all. But humanity is constituted by its freedom. We are what we choose to be. No planet chooses to be hospitable to life. No fish chooses to be a hero. No peacock chooses to be vain. Humans do choose. This is, in fact, the central question of the Torah: How can freedom coexist with order? Our drama is set on the stage of history, and it plays itself out through five acts, each with multiple scenes.
The basic shape of the narrative is roughly the same in all five cases. First, God creates order. Then humanity creates chaos. Terrible consequences follow. Then God begins again, deeply grieved but never losing His faith in the one life-form to which He set His image, and to which He gave the singular gift that made humanity godlike — namely freedom itself.
Act 1 is told in Genesis 1-11. God creates an ordered universe and fashions humanity from the dust of the earth — into which He breathes His own breath. But humans sin: first Adam and Eve, then Cain, then the generation of the Flood. The earth is filled with violence. God brings a flood and begins again, making a covenant with Noah. Humanity sins again by making the Tower of Babel (the first act of imperialism, as I argued in an earlier study). So God begins again, seeking a role model who will show the world what it is to live in faithful response to the word of God. He finds it in Abraham and Sarah.
Act 2 is told in Genesis 12-50. The new order is based on family and fidelity, love and trust. But this too begins to unravel. There is tension between Esau and Jacob, between Jacob’s wives Leah and Rachel, and between their children. Ten of Jacob’s children sell the eleventh, Joseph, into slavery. This is an offense against freedom, and catastrophe follows — not a Flood, but a famine, as a result of which Jacob’s family goes into exile in Egypt, where the whole Jewish people become enslaved. God is about to begin again, not with a family this time but with a nation; this, of course, is what Abraham’s children have now become.
Act 3 is the subject of the book of Shemot. God rescues the Israelites from Egypt, just as He once rescued Noah from the Flood. As with Noah (and Abraham), God makes a covenant, this time at Sinai, and it is far more extensive than its precursors. It is a blueprint for social order, for an entire society based on law and justice. Yet again, however, humans create chaos by making a Golden Calf a mere 40 days after the great revelation. God threatens catastrophe — to destroy the whole nation and begin again with Moses, as He had done with Noah and Abraham (Ex. 32:10). Only Moses’ passionate plea prevents this from happening. God then institutes a new order.
Act 4 begins with an account of this order, which is unprecedentedly long, extending from Exodus 35, through the whole of the book of Vayikra and the first ten chapters of Bamidbar. The nature of this new order is that God becomes not merely the director of history and the giver of laws. Instead, He becomes a permanent presence in the midst of the camp. Hence the building of the Mishkan, which takes up the last third of Shemot, and the laws of purity and holiness, as well as those of love and justice, that constitute virtually the whole of Vayikra.
Purity and holiness are demanded by the fact that God has become suddenly close. In the Tabernacle, the Divine Presence has a home on earth, and whoever comes close to God must be holy and pure. Only after this step is completed are the Israelites ready to begin the next stage of the journey — and only after a long introduction.
That long introduction, at the beginning of Bamidbar, is all about creating a sense of order within the camp. Hence the census, and the detailed disposition of the tribes, and the lengthy account of the Levites, the tribe that mediated between the people and the Divine Presence. Hence also, in next week’s parsha, the three laws — restitution, the sotah and the nazir — directed at the three forces that always endanger social order: theft, adultery and alcohol. It is as if God were saying to the Israelites: this is what order looks like. Each person has his or her place within the family, the tribe and the nation. Everyone has been counted, and each person counts. Preserve and protect this order, for without it you cannot enter the land, fight its battles and create a just society.
Tragically, as Bamidbar unfolds, we see that the Israelites turn out to be their own worst enemy. They complain about the food. Miriam and Aaron complain about Moses. Then comes the catastrophe — the episode of the spies, in which the people, demoralized, show that they are not yet ready for freedom. Again, as in the case of the Golden Calf, there is chaos in the camp. Again, God threatens to destroy the nation and begin again with Moses (Num. 14:12). Again only Moses’ powerful plea saves the day. God decides once more to begin again, this time with the next generation and a new leader. The book of Devarim is Moses’ prelude to Act 5, which takes place in the days of his successor, Joshua.
The Jewish story is a strange one. Time and again the Jewish people have split apart — in the days of the First Temple, when the kingdom divided into two, in the late Second Temple period, when it was driven into rival groups and sects, and in the modern age, at the beginning of the 19th century, when it fragmented into religious and secular spheres in Eastern Europe, and orthodox and others in the West. Those divisions have still not healed.
And so the Jewish people keep repeating the story told five times in the Torah. God creates order. Humans create chaos. Bad things happen, and then God and Israel begin again. Will the story never end?
One way or another, it is no coincidence that Bamidbar usually precedes Shavuot, the anniversary of the giving of the Torah at Sinai. God never tires of reminding us that the central human challenge in every age is whether freedom can coexist with order. The answer is that it can, when humans freely choose to follow God’s laws.
The alternative — ancient and modern — is the rule of power, in which, as Thucydides said, the strong do as they will and the weak suffer as they must. That is not freedom as the Torah understands it, nor is it a recipe for love and justice.
Each year, as we prepare for Shavuot by reading parshat Bamidbar, we hear God’s call: following the Torah and its mitzvot is the way to create a freedom that honors order, and a social order that honors human freedom. There is no other way.