Judaism doesn’t shy away from discomfort. In fact, it ritualizes it. Whether sitting shiva, tearing kriyah, or offering blessings that acknowledge pain, Jewish tradition invites us not to bypass grief, but to dwell in it, to name it, and ultimately to sanctify it. This week’s parshah, Chukat, does just that—it brings us face to face with loss and the messiness of mourning, and offers us an ancient blueprint for how to respond.

Parshat Chukat begins with the laws of the parah adumah, the red heifer—a ritual for purifying those who have come into contact with death. The paradox is striking: those performing the ritual become impure in the process of purifying others. This is followed by narrative shifts, including the death of Miriam, a confrontation over water at Mei Merivah, and the death of Aaron, high priest and elder brother to Moses. These moments mark deep and significant transitions in Israel’s journey, both spiritually and communally. Death, absence, and leadership change form the emotional core of the parshah, and are a part of our tradition even today.

Upon hearing news of a death, we recite:
בָּרוּךְ דַּיָּן הָאֱמֶת – Blessed is the true Judge.

This blessing, raw and unsweetened, does not mask the pain of loss. It acknowledges that life is often beyond our understanding—and that even grief deserves a sacred response. When Miriam and Aaron die, the Israelites stop. They mourn. And they move forward. Judaism teaches that pausing to mourn is not weakness; it is faith in action. In the blessing of Dayan Ha’Emet, we declare that grief belongs inside the walls of holiness—that death is not a detour from the spiritual path, but part of it.

We live in a culture that often rushes to “move on.” Judaism, and Parshat Chukat, challenge us to lean in. To say the blessing. To sit with someone in the silence of their sorrow. To hold space for the pain of transition, and to name it sacred. In doing so, we become like the red heifer’s caretakers—risking discomfort in order to bring purification and healing to others. May we never be afraid to speak the hard blessings. May we meet death and loss not only with tears, but with the reverence it deserves.

Baruch Dayan Ha’Emet. Blessed is the true Judge. Blessed is our capacity to mourn with meaning.

“Don’t forget your water bottle!” “Three big gulps right now!” These were the often-repeated sayings that were shouted almost every time we got on and off the bus on my first trip to Israel. It became a joke among us because it seemed that no matter what we were doing, our group leaders were always fixated on our fluid intake. To their credit, they didn’t want us to pass out from heat stroke or dehydration, but the amount of time spent talking about water on that trip felt like overkill. Fast forward a bit, and now I feel like I spend a quarter of my day tracking water consumption, whether drinking or just locating my water bottle or my children’s water bottles. If someone has a headache, the response is “Did you drink enough water?” If someone has a tummy ache, the answer is “Try some water.” My how the water tables have turned.

Water isn’t just a resource we need to live; it plays an important role in Jewish tradition beyond ensuring that living things can thrive. From the water used in ritual hand washing to the mikveh to tahara, the ritual washing of a body after death, water can transform from the inside out and the outside in. And this is no more evident than in our Torah portion for this week. 

Our parshah this week, Parshat Chukat, is full of plot twists and new experiences for the Israelites. The lands of Sichon and Og are conquered, both Miriam and Aaron die, and we learn that Moshe will not be allowed to enter into the land of Israel. When Miriam dies, we’re given one more water miracle on her behalf, with water flowing from the rock. We also learn that the reason Moshe and Aaron are not allowed to enter the land of Israel is because of the incident in which they struck the rock out of frustration instead of speaking to it as God had commanded. The text concludes with praise and thanks being sung to God for the water of the well. 

In chapter 20, verse 11 we read “and the people and their beasts drank.” This follows a passage that details Miriam’s death and then their lack of water to drink. This isn’t the first time the Israelites have been cranky about water. Immediately following the Exodus from Egypt they complained about water, then again a few chapters later. Throughout these passages, Miriam is associated with water because she seems to always show up when the people need it. Thus, it is fitting that after her death, they are dehydrated.

It’s interesting, however, that the “beasts” are included in this phrase. The beasts weren’t complaining, the people were. Why would this suddenly be a time to call out the hydration status of the animals? Perhaps it was because the people drank like beasts, each concerned only with their own thirst. Moses and Aaron are trying to grieve and process the death of their sister, and everyone around them is focused on their personal survival, and maybe rightly so. I don’t think the biggest lesson in this Torah portion is a reminder to get enough water or a warning about complaining to get what we want. The biggest lesson is that hydrating is an act of self-preservation, and we can’t care for the community if we don’t first see to our own needs.

When I was in Israel for my year of rabbinical study in Jerusalem, I took our very long break over Hanukkah to head over to Greece with a friend. Our plan was simple: drink ouzo, eat amazing Greek food, and check out every cultural experience we could. On one of our days wandering in Athens, we wound up watching the changing of the guard at a palace. It was incredible to witness. They were so precise in their movements; they knew exactly what to do, where to go, and how to behave. What we did notice, however, was that at each shift change (yes, we went back multiple times to watch) the new guards chose a slightly different place to stand. The change was small, but noticeable to us. Change is inevitable, even when we’re rigid and following a strict pattern or set of rules.

I’m not creative with a needle and thread, but in my one sewing adventure, I remember thinking I followed the same pattern to cut two equal pieces of fabric, only to find out I’m either bad at tracing or bad at cutting. The pieces were just ever so slightly different, but enough to not match. The same thing can happen with recipes. Use the same base, but change one ingredient or use fresh herbs instead of dried, and it completely changes the dish.

This is true with our Judaism. We base our traditions on the same book, the Torah, and yet how we observe today would be unrecognizable to the Israelites who were the first to inherit these traditions from God. We even see hints of these changes start to happen in our Torah portion this week. This week we read Parshat Chukat, which is full of plot twists and new experiences for the Israelites. The lands of Sichon and Og are conquered, both Miriam and Aaron die, and we learn that Moshe will not be allowed to enter into the land of Israel. In the middle of these major developments, we are also given a purification process that seems somewhat out of place in the context of the significant events that follow it.

For some, the weight of this parshah is that it carries with it the deaths of Aaron and Miriam and the mention of Moshe’s death as well. As heavy and full of grief as these moments are, we’re also watching the changing of the guard of the leadership of Israel. What the narrative marks is the moment when the Israelites who are in the desert have less of a collective memory of what it was like in Egypt and more memory of standing at Sinai. And soon, as the Israelites move into the promised land, the generation that stood at Sinai will be dwindling, and that too will be a memory.

There’s great purpose in this distinction. It reminds us that since the beginning of life, we are always learning, growing, and building on the memories and lessons of those who came before us and transmitting them to the next generation as they take on the mantle of leadership. The lesson in Parshat Chukat forces the Israelites to see that no leader, no person lives forever, and that’s not a bad thing. It pushes Moshe to train Joshua and opens the hearts and eyes of the people to seeing Joshua as the leader. 

A changing of the guard is significant, whether temporary or permanent. Even with text as old as Torah, we learn that change is built into everything we do. It’s up to us to prepare to pass it on. 

It’s difficult to see someone you love in pain. This is certainly the case for me. It hurts me to see people hurting, emotionally or physically. When one of my children – or even my husband – has a bad cut or scrape, I can’t look at the injury or hear about it without my heart sinking into my stomach or even feeling a little lightheaded. It isn’t so much that I can’t stand the sight of blood, it’s that I feel deeply in my body the pain of other people. I carry their hurt with me. Sometimes this is called sympathy pain (although maybe it should be called empathy pain) or even just being sensitive. Regardless, our ability to “feel” with another and to hold each other’s feelings and pains is one way in which human beings can support and show compassion for one another. 

In addition to feeling physical pain, there is a different experience of sharing non-physical pain, the kind of pain brought on when someone’s honor is damaged or disrespected. The question explored in this week’s Torah portion is who shares that type of pain when you experience it? Is it your immediate family? Is it your circle of friends? Or could that pain possibly be shared with people who came long before us?

This week we read Parshat Chukat, which is full of plot twists and new experiences for the Israelites. The lands of Sichon and Og are conquered, both Miriam and Aaron die, and we learn that Moshe will not be allowed to enter into the land of Israel. In the middle of these major developments, we are also given a purification process that seems somewhat out of place in the context of the significant events that follow it.

As the Israelites travel out from Kadesh, Moses sends messengers ahead to the king of Edom. He shares the following in chapter 20, verses 14-16: “Thus says your brother Israel: You know all the hardships that have befallen us; that our ancestors went down to Egypt, that we dwelt in Egypt a long time, and that the Egyptians dealt harshly with us and our ancestors. We cried to the Lord and He heard our plea, and He sent a messenger who freed us from Egypt.” It’s quite a dramatic message, and ultimately a message of faith to say, “We’ve been hurt and abused, but we’ve got God with us.”

One line feels a bit odd, however. What does it mean for the Egyptians to have dealt harshly “with us and our ancestors?” The word used is avoteinu, which is the way the Torah refers to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah. But we know that aside from Jacob, none of the rest of our ancestors were in Egypt, which means none of them were dealt harshly with. So why phrase it this way?

Bamidbar (Numbers) Rabbah interprets this to mean that when Israel suffers, our ancestors in heaven feel their pain. We often talk about how the pain of the present can affect future generations, but we don’t often think that our past can feel our current pain. If you think about it, though, it makes sense in relation to how we already think about the past. I’ve heard plenty of times “Your dad would be so proud.” Do they mean that he would only be proud if he were still alive? Or is there a deeper connection that suggests he’s still proud on some level that we believe in, but can’t really understand? Or could I make the memory of him proud? And if the memory of him can be proud, can the memory of him also feel shame or hurt or pain? 

This week our Torah portion sends us a hopeful message, especially as we’re finally renewing relationships with people in person. The message is that we are all connected in many more ways than through either our stories or through our physical interactions. Rather, it’s both. And perhaps coming to this realization that we can feel each other’s pain, see each other’s vision, and help each other achieve greatness would make our ancestors proud.