Beha'alōsekho and Nourishment / בהעלתך און נערונג

This is a weekly series

of parsha dvarim written by a frum, atheist, transsexual anarchist. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make us more comfortable) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times.

An appeal

My friend Kamal needs help to leave Gaza. He is trying to immigrate to Greece to search for his missing son, who in desperation took a small and dangerous lifeboat across the Mediterranean. Please donate what you can.

Content note

Mentions of hunger, racism, and disease

Parsha summary

Beha'alōsekho means "when you mount", referring to installing the menorah in the Mishkon. It's a parsha dense with narrative.

The Leyvis are purified for service in the Mishkon and presented as an offering from the Jews to Hashem, taking the place of the first-born sons. Those who were ritually impure during Peysakh are given Peysakh Sheni ("Second Peysakh") in order to make the Peysakh offerings. We're instructed to create two silver trumpets, blown by the Kohanim to assemble the leaders, the military, or the entire community; to instruct the camp to move; and to celebrate festivals and Rosh Khōdesh (the new moon).

The people wander and complain about the lack of food, angering Hashem. In my opinion, this is the richest poetry in the parsha.

Finally, Miriam and Ahron speak badly against their brother Moishe because he intermarries. Today this slander is commonly understood as being motivated by racism and xenophobia, and Miriam is punished by Hashem with tsraas. These lines are the basis for our laws on loshn-hore ("evil tongue", or harmful gossip). Loshn-hore is one of the prevailing social ills on the left: it tears down our most dedicated people, stops us from fostering trust and community, and thus precludes us from organizing effectively.

The issue of gossip and its role in community harm vs. community care warrants its own essay, which I intend to write soon. But this week I want to focus on the poetic, the theological questions of Hashem's presence, and anarchism as prophesy actualized.

Mana

Tōrah reminds us of the cloud which directs them, and fire that burns over the Mishkon each night. The Jews begin wandering out of the desert wilderness.

When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: Advance, O Hashem! May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You! And when it halted, he would say: Return, O Hashem, You who are Israel’s myriads of thousands! (Bmidbar 10:35–36)

The people complain. Hashem makes a (different, dangerous) fire break out on the outskirts of the camp. The people cry out to Moishe. Moishe prays and the fire dies down. The people complain about the mana—the magical non-food nourishment which descends from the sky with the morning dew—longing for the meat, garlic, cucumbers, melons, onions, and leeks from Mitsrayim. Why is the mana unsatisfying? The Rabbis offer some ideas: the mana tastes of other foods, but not the five mentioned; or the mana tastes of all foods, but lacks the textures of those mentioned. I've also heard that perhaps the mana is flavorless, or that eating mana is physically painful because we don't digest it but absorb it directly into our bones.

What is it about food that nourishes us?

The wandering Jews had biological sustenance, and they had community, but they were still dissatisfied. Food represents so much more than fuel—it's culture, and it's home.

In the absence of the nourishment they long for, the Israelites weep. Hashem is angry. Moishe is distressed. This is yet another fire he has to put out. Moishe cries out that he's sick and tired of leading these people:

I love how dramatic Moishe can be: he begs for death rather than continue to endure this, "my" wretchedness. He feels unduly responsible for the whininess of his people. Hashem takes his cries seriously. Moishe can't lead alone—a good reminder that none of us can. Hashem tells him to gather 70 community elders who will share the burden.

To the problem of a whiny people, Hashem promises to satiate them by providing them with the meat they crave—but clearly does so out of anger and spite:

Moishe answers that the Jews number 600,000 soldiers alone: how could there be enough meat to last all the Israelites an entire month?

In this moment, even Moishe lacks faith.

Hashem answers, in one of Tōrah's sassiest lines:

A cubit is about 1.5 feet, so there was poultry some 3 feet deep across the camp. The infinite quail flex is proof of Hashem's power for a people who shouldn't need it, given how many miracles they've witnessed. The "gift" of quail is both a fulfillment of their request and a punishment.

Did the people eat meat for a month, or were they immediately smote? The Rabbis say that the average people were killed by the plague immediately, while the wicked suffered for an entire meaty month before they died. The absence of comment on the righteous suggests to me that they alone survived.

Hashem's follow-through here highlights the contrast between the text and our modern lives, where we—or at least, I—don't see direct evidence of divinity. How is the covenant being upheld now? Where's the proof?

Hashem is absent but the poetry of the text persists in His place.

I'm drawn to these particular verses not just because it's beautiful and evocative, but because the persistence of poetry is keeping me sane. Whoever first described the quail meat, unchewed between our teeth, is not just recounting events and fulfilling the commandment to "remember" but is transmitting a sense memory with a sense of urgency. The plague is sudden and unfair. Why give us quails only to kill us for eating them? Why entrap us into eating quails? Why test us like this? Why make us eat mana instead of giving us delicious garlic and onions whilst we wander? This suffering and trickery does not inspire trust in Hashem. Can we trust each other?

Anarchism as Prophesy

Hashem redistributes Moishe's burden among the 70 community leaders, creating a decentralized collective source of authority: a restructuring that is much less hierarchical. The leaders all "speak in ecstasy" or prophesize. Soon, they stop, except Eldod and Meydod who continue. This makes people nervous but Moishe says "Would that all Jews were prophets."

There's speculation on what they were saying, and why it caused tension. What are our prophecies as modern Jews? Can we be bold with our political imaginations, even if it makes people uncomfortable? Can we reclaim words like "abolition" from liberal buzzwords into action? Are we limited to marching? Are street skirmishes with cops that leave us bruised and broken the best we can do?

Eat well this Shabos. Build the world you want to live in by welcoming others to your table, and then go further by collectively imagining better futures. We nourish each other.