Home  Torah Lamplighter |
Volume 28 Issue 15
May 10-16, 2026 - 23-29 Iyar, 5786
Torah Reading: Bamidbar
Candle Lighting: 7:55 PM
Shabbos Ends: 8:53 PM
Parsha Synopsis · A Word From the Rabbi
Essay · Thoughts That Count
Once Upon A Chassid · Tid Bits · Happenings · Notes From Israel
Parsha Synopsis
Bamidbar
Numbers 1:1–4:20
The name of the Parshah, "Bamidbar," means "In the desert" and it is found in Numbers 1:1.
In the Sinai Desert, G‑d says to conduct a census of the twelve tribes of Israel. Moses counts 603,550 men of draftable age (20 to 60 years); the tribe of Levi, numbering 22,300 males age one month and older, is counted separately. The Levites are to serve in the Sanctuary. They replace the firstborn, whose number they approximated, since they were disqualified when they participated in the worshipping of the Golden Calf. The 273 firstborn who lacked a Levite to replace them had to pay a five-shekel “ransom” to redeem themselves.
When the people broke camp, the three Levite clans dismantled and transported the Sanctuary, and reassembled it at the center of the next encampment. They then erected their own tents around it: the Kohathites, who carried the Sanctuary’s vessels (the Ark, menorah, etc.) in their specially designed coverings on their shoulders, camped to its south; the Gershonites, in charge of its tapestries and roof coverings, to its west; and the families of Merari, who transported its wall panels and pillars, to its north. Before the Sanctuary’s entranceway, to its east, were the tents of Moses, Aaron, and Aaron’s sons.
Beyond the Levite circle, the twelve tribes camped in four groups of three tribes each. To the east were Judah (pop. 74,600), Issachar (54,400) and Zebulun (57,400); to the south, Reuben (46,500), Simeon (59,300) and Gad (45,650); to the west, Ephraim (40,500), Manasseh (32,200) and Benjamin (35,400); and to the north, Dan (62,700), Asher (41,500) and Naphtali (53,400). This formation was kept also while traveling. Each tribe had its own nassi (prince or leader), and its own flag with its tribal color and emblem.
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The Baal Shem Tov was accustomed to draw out his prayers on Friday evenings. His disciples, who typically finished before him, would wait for their Rebbe to conclude, so as to join him in the Shabbos meal.
It happened, on a given Friday, that one of the participants felt rather hungry. He thought to himself: “There is still plenty of time before the Baal Shem Tov will complete his prayers; I ought to go and eat something. In all likelihood, I will be back before he’s done. Besides, there are plenty of others around; I shall certainly not be missed.”
Seeing him leave, another fellow decided to do the same, this started a chain reaction. Before long the Baal Shem Tov was left all to himself. Imagine their embarrassment, when, upon their return, they found their Rebbe sitting all alone waiting for them.
The Baal Shem Tov then lovingly explained that a head is only as high as the body on which it rests. He said that his ability to stay "up there," and function as their head, depended entirely on the degree of their commitment as his disciples.
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It is difficult for a person to have a sense of personal worth if he does not feel that he is serving a purpose. All the items we value are either functional or ornamental. They either serve a purpose of some sort or they are decorative. For example, if you have a handsome grandfather clock that stops working, you may retain it for its aesthetic value as a beautiful piece of furniture. But if a can-opener stops functioning you simply throw it away. Since it has no aesthetic value, it has no value whatever when its function is gone.
Relatively few people can consider themselves to be ornamental, and so our sense of value; our personal worth, can come only from the knowledge that we are doing something. But if all we are doing is satiating our various appetites, that hardly gives much significance to our existence . . . (Rabbi Abraham J. Twersky M.D.)
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Everyone wants to count for something; it’s basic human nature. In fact, our very identity and self worth is inextricably linked to the difference we make in the world. The latter is not something that is learned or even understood, it is as instinctive as are the feelings of pain, hunger, love and fear.
According to the teachings of Chassidus, this trait stems from the attribute of Ratzon; the highest and most essential human characteristic – higher then Chachmah; the first of the ten soul expressions.
Not to be needed, by anyone for anything, is tantamount to irrelevance and worthlessness – it is to count for nothing in one’s own eyes. Not as obvious, however, is the fact that to count is to be counted-upon.
While we all want to count and be needed, responsibility, loyalty and commitment are dreaded words in today’s freelance culture. These traits are in fact, in very short supply. The notion that our worthiness is dependant and commensurate with our level of dependability and commitment is somehow lost on us.
This week we begin the fourth of the five books that constitute the Pentateuch – Bamidbar, also known as the Book of Numbers. Though the Hebrew word Bamidbar means in the desert, the name Numbers appears to have derived from the fact that the first Parsha (also called Bamidbar) begins with a counting.
Moshe is told to count the entire populace, from twenty and up: "Take a census of the entire assembly of the Children of Israel according to their families, according to their fathers' household, by number of the names, every male according to their head count. From twenty years of age and up – everyone who goes out to the legion in Israel – you shall count them according to their legions, you and Aharon," (Numbers 1:2-3).
But what was the purpose of the census? It’s not like there was a concern with civil infrastructure or housing assessments, they were after all living in a desert. Even agricultural calculations were unnecessary, as their food came from Heaven. What possible bearing could the recorded numbers have on any moral issue?
Moreover, this was not the only time that G‑d requested for the Children of Israel to be counted. As Rashi points out: “When they went out of Egypt He counted them, and after the sin of the Golden Calf He counted the fallen, to know how many remained. And now, in our portion, He counts them yet again.”
Considering the fact that every word in the Torah is calculated and measured, the reason for the various census and the detailed transmission of the multiple names and numbers seems somewhat mysterious.
At least if the figures were very astounding, it might be interpreted as a matter of national pride. But the statistics themselves are hardly impressive. The Jewish nation has never been legendary for its exceptional numbers. This reality is underscored rather succinctly by G‑d Himself: "I have not chosen you because of your great numbers; rather, you are to be the smallest of all nations." So, to whom does it matter that the tribe of Gad had 45,650 males over twenty or that the tribe of Menashe had 32,200?
The count was obviously not intended to impress anyone in terms of its monolithic quantity, nor was it for socio-economic reasons. The Torah is rather determined to emphasize the importance and inherent value of each and every soul – to impress upon us that each individual can alter the course of history.
It is not the numbers that are of such significance, it is rather the act of being counted. Hence the preoccupation of our Parsha, with the census and all its details. By this the Torah means to underscore the importance of each individual – their unique and indispensable role and potential.
Moreover, the counting itself served as a means of uplifting the people. The very act of being counted assigned each Jew a unique importance and role to play. It endowed each and everyone with a special dignity, significance and a higher Divine awareness. Hence the term: "S'u es rosh Bnai Yisroel - count (literally lift up the heads of) the Children of Israel.
This fundamental idea is reflected in the letters of our national moniker. Our sages assert that the five Hebrew letters that spell the word “Yisroel” are an acronym for the words “Yesh Shishim Ribu Osiyos La‘Torah” – there are six hundred thousand letters in the Torah. The number of souls that comprised the census – “600,000”– is the number of letters which comprise the Torah.
What is the correlation between the original Jewish population and the letters of the Torah? The answer, say the Rabbis, is that just as a Torah scroll is rendered invalid if even a single letter is missing or incomplete, so too is every Jew vital to the wholeness and validity of the Jewish nation.
Accordingly, the Torah's emphasis on the importance of counting each and every member of our nation is to teach us that each individual counts! He or she is unique; different from all others, with a distinctive function and distinctive contribution to make. But that’s not all.
The census further emphasized the fact that each individual is a critical component of a larger whole – a larger family, tribe and nation that depend upon him or her; that are incomplete without him or her! It underscores the fact that we have varying levels of “responsibility” toward each of these units, which comprise our larger Jewish community.
Our responsibility towards each other and towards the greater whole is a cardinal principle of Jewish belief and practice. It is arguably the secret weapon that kept us and sustained us throughout this long and arduous exile.
As we approach the holiday of Shavuos, when the nation of Israel was encamped at the foot of the mountain “Like one person with one heart,” may we strengthen and reaffirm our commitment and responsibility towards one another and our greater whole. This will certainly hasten the coming of the righteous Moshiach BBA.
Gut Shabbos!
Rabbi Kahanov is the founder/director of Chabad in Northeast FL, consisting of 6 Chabad Centers
He is also the author of "What Chabad Really Believes"
If you like this, you might be interested in purchasing his book click here for more information
Desert Honeymoon
I was sitting at the dining room table this week when a movement outside the window caught my eye: I looked up to see a roadrunner. For those of you not in the desert, a roadrunner is a kind of bird that looks like a cross between a woodpecker and an eagle that hasn't eaten for a week. In its mouth this roadrunner was a holding a white lizard, which looked like a Mattel dinosaur that hadn't been painted yet.
I ran to grab my new camera, a birthday present, a digital AK-47PX or something like that. My kids have been too busy to show me how it works and I've been too slow to learn.
I snapped away as the roadrunner repeatedly flung the lizard to the ground until the lizard's neck became covered with blood. The pictures, of course didn't come out, so no, I won't be featured in next month's National Geographic.
To the right of our place forty homes are going up; to the left, hundreds. The desert vistas are giving way to tract homes. Those who haven't been to the desert are surprised when they get here; apparently they expected to see silent sand dunes baking in the sun all the way to the horizon. Those who live here think of it as hotter than Los Angeles, with better air than the Valley and less traffic than Orange County. But with the homes, golf courses, pools and malls the desert part of it is easily forgotten. Or ignored.
The desert is desolate, bare; where survival is chancy and death stares you in the face. Where without irrigation and air-conditioning you would never go, never mind go for a honeymoon. But this is where the good L-rd took us as soon as we left Egypt.
There was no food, no water, and enough sun and scorpions to kill many times over. And we went. Blindly. "Blindly" is thought of very negatively; let us call it "trustingly."
He led and we followed and years later, when the marriage went sour, He remembered our blind love and He turned a blind eye. And then we got sour with Him and we too turned a blind eye, and we settled into being an old married couple. But before we had a chance to get too grumpy, along came a Rebbe who brought a zest and a zing and everything back to the marriage so that we're back on a honeymoon.
And for a honeymoon there is no place better than the desert. Not because of the golf courses. The desert has its own beauty. The vastness, the emptiness, the stark majesty call to the fore something big, majestic and unchanging. Trees and grass for all their beauty and usefulness block that. Houses and fences, for all that we need them, call to mind our accomplishment. And in the face of accomplishment, the stark majesty is lost.
We go back to the desert, that state of blind love and that state of vast majesty. Our love, His majesty. His love, that majesty that pulsates somewhere inside of us. Underneath all the accomplishments.
It is the week we begin Numbers, the fourth book of the Torah five, which calls attention to "in the wilderness." It calls attention to this state in the week of Shavuot, the holiday which commemorates when the Torah was given in the desert. At Sinai. And as our 3318th anniversary draws close, we hold His hand and are grateful that our marriage feels young.
Rabbi Shimon Posner is the director of Chabad of Rancho Mirage, California.
A man of every tribe who is the head of his family division. (Num. 1:4)
It is easier for a person to be considered great by strangers than by his own family who know his faults well. If a person is appreciated by his “family division” - those who know him well - it is a sign that he is worthy of being at the head of his tribe. (Otzreinu Hayashan)
They declared their pedigrees according to their families, by the house of their fathers. (1:18)
Rashi explains: “They brought books of their genealogies and witnesses to the claims of their births.” A story is told about the Rabbi of Ostrovtza, who was the son of simple parents - his father was a baker. Once he was sitting at an assembly of rabbis who were discussing Torah. Each rabbi quoted something he had learned from his father or grandfather. Said the rabbi of Ostrovtza: “My father used to say, a fresh pastry is better than a stale one.”
As they camped, so shall they set forward. (2:17)
The Jews were told to behave in the same manner while they were traveling as they behave in their own dwellings when they set camp. This was emphasized before starting out on their journey because some people tend to become lax in their Jewish observance when traveling. (Mikra Meforash)
Ungrammatically Correct
G‑d spoke to Moses in the Sinai Desert (1:1
The Torah was given to us in the barren, ownerless desert to emphasize that no man may claim any superior right to the word of G‑d. It is equally the heritage of every Jew, man, woman, and child, equally accessible to the accomplished scholar and the most simple of Jews.
- Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, of righteous memory
The Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka, wife of Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch, was forever reciting Psalms, but with many mispronunciations.
Once, she commented to her son, Rabbi Yehudah Leib: "You know, it's strange. By now, I should know the book of Psalms by heart. I've been reciting the Psalms every day for many years now." "True," said Rabbi Yehudah Leib, "but each time you recite them with new mistakes."
The Rebbetzin related this exchange to her husband, adding that perhaps she had better stop her custom rather than distort the holy words. "No," insisted Rabbi Menachem Mendel, "continue to recite as before."
Later, Rabbi Menachem Mendel admonished his son and instructed him to ask his mother for forgiveness. "What do you know?" he told him. "My success in Petersburg was in the merit of your mother's Psalms."
Tid Bits
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The Boundary That Set Me Free
Why a Tech Executive Turns Off Her Phone for 25 Hours
Just after I was hired at Facebook, my manager flew from Dublin to London to meet me for the first time. I had spent months in interviews and assessments to get there. It was a year or two after the IPO and getting in felt almost impossible. Now I was finally in, and I was nervous. This was my first real meeting with the person I would be working for. I had prepared for every kind of question: strategy, leadership, my biggest failure, my five-year plan. He asked me a different question. “Michal, what do you care about?” I opened my mouth and, before I could second-guess myself, I heard myself say, “I care about this new thing in my life. I don’t even fully understand it yet. It’s called Shabbat.” I was as surprised as he was. I was not raised observant; I grew up in a secular home in Tel Aviv where Judaism was about identity and history rather than candles and blessings. I had spent most of my life being one of those people who would have said, “Shabbat is beautiful, but it has nothing to do with my life. I run a team. I have three small children. I am dialed in to three time zones at once. I cannot log off for 25 hours.” And yet, there I was, telling my new boss that this thing I barely understood was the thing I cared about most. This week, for the first time in American history, a sitting president has invited everyone into that same conversation. The proclamation of Shabbat 250, from before sundown on Friday, May 15, to after nightfall on Saturday, May 16, asks you to step into the rhythm Jewish families have been keeping for thousands of years, in honor of the country’s 250th birthday. I want to talk to the people I know best: the executives, the founders, the bankers, the engineers, the always-on, always-replying people. The people who, like me a decade ago, would politely smile at the idea of Shabbat and quietly think, not for me. This is for you. The Day I Started I was 38. I had everything that is supposed to make a person feel whole: a husband I love, three young children, the career I had been clawing toward since we moved from Tel Aviv to London. But I was anxious all the time. I had tried therapy, meditation, yoga, every self-help book on the shelf. None of it touched the noise inside. One Friday afternoon, I came home and did something small. I lit two candles in my kitchen. I did not say a blessing. I didn’t know one. I just sat and watched them burn. The next Friday, I did it again. Slowly, over months and then years, my husband, Yair, and I started introducing Shabbat into our home. First, just dinner together. Then no phones at the table. Then a few hours of being properly off. Then more. By the time our fourth child was born, she was born into a home where Shabbat was already part of the air we breathed. What Boundaries Actually Do I studied organizational sociology and psychodynamics. I have spent my whole career thinking about how groups, teams, and families function. Here is something we know clearly from that field: humans do not feel free in the absence of structure. We feel lost. A child without bedtime is not a liberated child. They are an exhausted, anxious child. An adult without an internal stop signal is not a liberated adult. They are a burnt-out one with no sense of where they end and their inbox begins. The thing that surprised me about Shabbat is not that it is restful. It is that it is contained. It begins at a specific moment and it ends at a specific moment, and inside those 25 hours nothing is asked of me except presence. I cannot scroll. I cannot perform. I cannot achieve. I can only be, with my husband, with my children, with myself, with G‑d. For someone who had built her identity on doing, this was terrifying. And then it was the most healing thing I have ever encountered. When I later wrote my book, What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?, this was one of the questions I kept circling back to: what would we actually do, who would we actually be, if we were not afraid to be? People often assume Shabbat is a list of things you cannot do. From the inside, it is the opposite. It is the one day a week the world is not allowed to ask anything of me. That is not a restriction. That is a gift, written into the design of creation by a G‑d Who, the Torah tells us, rested on the seventh day not because He was tired but because He was teaching us how to live. Yair’s Phone The hardest convert in our house was my husband. Yair is an investment banker. His clients expect him to be reachable. Deals close on weekends. A delayed email can cost real money. When we first talked about turning off his phone for a full day, he was honest with me. It wasn’t FOMO. It was fear. “I am going to lose a deal.” That was almost a decade ago. He has not lost one. What he has noticed, and he says this far more often than I do, is that some of the deals he is most proud of closed because he was unreachable on Shabbat. A negotiation that was tense on Friday afternoon would soften over the weekend. A reply he was about to fire off in frustration never got sent, because he physically could not send it. By Saturday night the situation had moved on its own. The other side had cooled down. A better email could be written. There is something the best dealmakers know: the most powerful move in a negotiation is often not to respond. To make space. To let the situation breathe. Shabbat does that for you whether you want it to or not. It is, quite possibly, the oldest productivity hack in human history. The Friday Night Table By the time I moved from Facebook to TikTok, Shabbat was no longer a new thing in my life. It was an integral part of who I am. I was open about it, proud of it, and as a natural evolution of falling in love with this day of rest, I started inviting my colleagues over on Friday nights. People of all faiths and religions, people with no faith at all, people who had never sat at a Shabbat table in their lives. Those evenings became the most meaningful of my life. There is something that happens at a Shabbat table that does not happen in a meeting room or at a work dinner. The phones are away. The conversation slows down. People talk about their parents, their kids, the things they are afraid of, the things they are hoping for. We sing. We bless the children. We thank G‑d for the bread and the wine. And somewhere between the soup and the dessert, the colleagues become friends, and the friends become family. What Shabbat 250 is Really Asking You do not have to keep Shabbat the way I keep it, or the way my Chabad rabbi keeps it, to accept this invitation. You do not have to know the blessings. You can start the way I started. Light candles on Friday before sundown. Sit at a table with people you love. Put your phone in a drawer. Eat slowly. Talk about something other than work. See what happens at hour three, hour seven, hour twelve. Notice the silence where the notifications used to be. Ten years in, I sometimes say this and I mean it: I do not keep Shabbat; Shabbat keeps me. It keeps me grounded in a profession built on speed. It keeps me a wife and a mother and not just a job title. It keeps me connected to my grandmother, who lit candles in a village in Poland before the war, and to her grandmother before her, and to a chain of women I will never meet but who I am holding hands with every Friday at sundown. America is 250 years old this year. Shabbat is much, much older. On May 15, the two will meet for one weekend. Try it once. See what it gives back. By Michal Oshman Michal Oshman is the bestselling author of What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?, the CEO of Maximize Consultancy, and a LinkedIn Top Voice on leadership and high performance. She was previously Global Head of Company Culture at TikTok and led international leadership and team development at Facebook. She lives in London with her husband and four children. |
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