We are starting a new Sefer this week, switching from Sefer Vayikra, the third book in the Pentateuch, to the fourth, Sefer Bamidbar. And that is of great theological significance. The five books of the Torah chart the unfolding story of klal Yisroel’s relationship with Hakadosh Baruch Hu (“HKBH”), with each sefer marking a new stage in that relationship. Switching sefarim, therefore, is not merely literary or organizational. It signals transition and ascent. And that transition has profound implications for our own spiritual lives.
Sefer Breishit, in large part, narrates the story of our ancestral encounter with HKBH, first as individuals and then as a tribe and clan. We learn how our forebears’ relationship with HKBH took shape and deepened. Sefer Shemot then tells the story of transformation: how Yakov and his offspring became a nation, and how they began building a richer and more structured relationship with God through the Mishkan and those devoted to His service. Sefer Vayikra follows by spelling out the means through which that relationship is cultivated. Korbanot, pilgrimage, and the Beit Hamikdash become the vehicle through which closeness to HKBH is pursued and sustained.
Then comes Sefer Bamidbar, the book we begin this week. Here we are introduced to a new and more complex phase of the relationship, one marked by tension, rupture and repair. In the course of the coming weeks we will encounter moments in which the relationship experiences severe tension and immense conflict.
And perhaps that is precisely the point.
For the first time, the Torah confronts us with the vulnerability that intimacy itself creates. The closer a relationship becomes, the more emotionally and spiritually demanding it also becomes. And that is true of a relationship with HKBH no less than any other relationship. A kesher to HKBH experiences moments of profound closeness, but also periods of distance and strain.
As I have mentioned in the past, Chassidut speaks eloquently about the dynamic of רצוא ושוב, the idea that religious life is not linear but oscillatory. Our relationship with HKBH moves back and forth. There are moments of great closeness and intimacy, but there are also periods in which distance enters the relationship, moments when one feels removed and spiritually far away. And that is not a sign of failure. That is religious vibrancy. That is spiritual authenticity.
And that is why the story of Bamidbar is not only their story, but ours as well.
When we read the Torah, we are not merely studying our ancestral past. We are encountering those same spiritual experiences ourselves. As Midrash Rabba repeatedly reminds us, מעשי אבות סימן לבנים, the stories of our ancestors serve as templates for their descendants. The Torah is teaching us what a life of closeness to HKBH actually looks like: its slow beginnings, gradual growth, moments of spiritual intensity, and periods of complexity and struggle.
This idea lies at the heart of a famous Chassidic reading of Matan Torah. When describing revelation at Sinai, the Torah says that God spoke in a קול גדול ולא יסף, a loud and unending voice. Talmidei Ba’al Shem Tov understood Matan Torah itself as an ongoing spiritual reality. The giving of the Torah did not happen only once, at a distinct moment in history. It continues to unfold in every generation, each age encountering Torah through the realities and challenges of its own time.
Therefore, each week, when we read the parsha, we are not merely recounting what happened long ago. We are encountering those same spiritual movements in the here and now. Just as our ancestors experienced the shifting movements of closeness and distance in their relationship with HKBH, so too do we.
Thus, this week, as we begin Sefer Bamidbar, we should pause and celebrate. The relationship is turning up a notch. But as with every relationship, greater intimacy brings with it both promise and challenge.
And that is what makes the relationship meaningful.
A spiritually alive relationship with HKBH is not static. It moves between closeness and distance, yearning and frustration, joy and pain. The חיות, the sense of spiritual aliveness we seek in avodat Hashem, emerges precisely from that movement.
I would not have it any other way.
Perhaps this also sheds light on a beautiful liturgical custom. Every time we complete one of the books of the Torah, the Ashkenazi custom is for the entire congregation to proclaim together: חזק חזק ונתחזק. According to some interpretations, the phrase means: “We are strong, and we pray to become even stronger.”
At first glance, the custom seems strange. Why would finishing a sefer prompt us to ask for strength?
But in light of everything we have said, it makes perfect sense.
Switching sefarim is a moment of spiritual transition. One chapter in the story of our pursuit of קרבת אלוקים has come to a close, and another is beginning. And every new stage of religious life brings with it new possibilities, but also new demands.
Thus, as we move from one sefer to the next, we ask for strength. Strength to continue growing. Strength to navigate the tensions that deeper closeness inevitably creates. Strength to continue pursuing kirvat Elokim even when the relationship becomes difficult.
Indeed, חזק חזק ונתחזק; we are strong, and we pray to become even stronger as we continue our journey toward deeper kirvat Elokim and greater kedusha.
Daf of the Day
