By Rabbi Dan Lewin
Parashat Bamidbar
Last week, while watching my son’s baseball game, I struck up a conversation with another father who was sitting next to me on the bleachers. To our surprise, we discovered a shared connection: my great-grandfather and his great-uncle — a well-known rabbi in South Africa — had been friends many years ago in Johannesburg. I mentioned that my father still has a painting based on a photograph taken at his grandfather’s 90th birthday, capturing both men together. I even pulled up an image of the painting on my phone. This unexpected encounter led us to reflect on the enduring journey of the Jewish people — while enjoying America’s pastime.
The suffering endured by Jews throughout history is beyond imagination — a relentless cycle of nightmares and freedom, ruin and rebuilding. After fleeing to a new land and successfully settling in, it was inevitable that a time would come to pick up and start again. And where would the next place be? Where would our grandchildren and descendants end up? In modern times, scarcely a town or village in Russia or Europe exists whose soil isn’t stained with Jewish blood. Hundreds of thousands perished in mass graves in Vilna and beyond — victims of pogroms and attacks in every land — all without the protection of a Jewish army, a concept unthinkable in those times. Yet we are still here miraculously, now in our homeland and with an army.
After World War II, surviving Jews sought only peaceful, quiet lives. The past two generations have experienced a period of relative tranquility and success, contributing significantly to every country and culture they’ve integrated into — especially in America. However, as antisemitism resurfaces — sponsored and encouraged by foreign nations who resent Israel — lies spread through media and academia to reshape how Jews are perceived. Many who have enjoyed this period of acceptance seem either unaware or in denial.
Reflecting on these historical cycles, it’s disheartening to see that the extensive efforts and funding for Holocaust museums seem to have lost much of their broader impact. The Holocaust and the evil of Nazism are increasingly trivialized and stripped of context, treated as just another historical atrocity among many. The importance and emphasis of remembering has become, it seems, mainly for us.
Here is a perspective worth reflecting on: One might assume that after all the pain endured, the longing for Moshiach would center on the hope to end the suffering. Yet the Rambam (Maimonides), in his Mishneh Torah, explains that the true yearning is for the opportunity to study Torah in its pure form, without hindrance. That’s a powerful spiritual view.
Preparation for Sinai
If Torah insight is the pinnacle stage of our journey through history, then let us return to the moment it all began: the giving of the Torah, which we will soon commemorate on Shavuot. The portion of Bamidbar, which is traditionally read on the Shabbat before Shavuot, holds special relevance to this festival. As Shavuot is called the wedding of Israel to G-d, Bamidbar is a preparation for that special union between G-d and His people which came upon their receiving of the Torah.
The portion, which begins a new book, opens with G-d’s command that a census be taken of the Israelites. In fact, there were three such counts taken in the first thirteen months following the exodus from Egypt — perhaps the reason it’s called Numbers in English. Counting in general serves different purposes. People may count their possessions for various reasons — some practical, others emotional or psychological. It may be simply to keep track and maintain order, or to experience satisfaction or gratitude.
But here, it’s a census — and a divine command. So, there must be something more significant than the surface purpose of organizing the nation for its journey or preparing it as a military force. Furthermore, when G-d counts the Jewish people, so to speak, it’s not because He doesn’t know the number.
Rashi, whose job is to fill in the gaps of the verses with meaningful explanations, immediately comments that this command to count is a sign of love and affection. Just as a person counts what they cherish most, the Jewish people are being counted to show that each individual is precious and not just part of a crowd.
3 counts, 3 stages
The Torah relates that the Jewish people were counted three times in the first year and one month after leaving Egypt; then only once more, 38 years later, during their wanderings in the wilderness; and only at rare intervals afterward. According to tradition, there have been nine such censuses in total — and the 10th will occur in the future era. Why, then, were there three censuses in such close proximity at the beginning of the nation’s journey, and what distinguished them?
The first, upon leaving Egypt, is not attributed to any specific individual. The second was conducted by Moses. The third, however, was commanded to both Moses and Aaron. Why was Aaron involved in this third count but not the others?
To understand this, we need to explore the spiritual nature of the census. When people are counted, they are placed on equal footing: the greatest and the simplest are each counted once — no more, no less. The focus is not intellect or moral standing but essence — the soul, which we do not usually perceive. The spiritual nature of this census was to elevate this inner truth, to bring the soul of each Jew to the surface of awareness.
The three censuses represent stages in this process. The first, taken at the Exodus, awakened the soul through G-d’s love. It stirred the Israelites’ willingness to follow Him into the barren wilderness, but it left their emotions untouched. The second census, taken before the building of the Tabernacle, engaged their minds and emotions as they prepared for the work that would draw G-d’s presence into their midst. Yet even here, the drive came from above — G-d’s command, rather than their inner initiative.
But the third census marked a higher turning point. Now the Tabernacle was complete, and the people were actively bringing G-d’s presence into their midst through their own actions. Their efforts now came from within. This shift explains Aaron’s involvement in the last counting: in Torah symbolism and mystical framework, Moses is the communicator and channel of divine revelation from above, while Aaron, the priest, elevated the people from below. At this stage, both forces were needed. It was no longer just about receiving but about becoming active participants in the relationship.
Relevance to Shavuot
With this in mind, the connection of our current portion to Shavuot is even clearer. When the Torah was given, there was a double movement: G-d revealed Himself from above, and the people were elevated from below. In the same spirit, the portion of Bamidbar speaks of a census that brought both aspects together — Moses and Aaron, revelation and elevation. Through this counting, each individual was affirmed in their worth, the soul was activated, and the nation was readied for a higher union.
As we near the celebration of the Torah, we are reminded of the worth of each Jewish life, the personal connection to the Torah as an inheritance, and the revelation of a code of divine laws by which we live.
Rabbi Dan Lewin is director of the nonprofit Maayan Chai Foundation. For information, visit www.maayanchai.org.