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.

Sometimes it seems that no matter how bad things are going, just when you think it can’t get any worse, there’s more bad news. I’m sure you’ve been there. You’re at the end of your rope, dealing with every possible frustration you can imagine, and then something else comes along that totally knocks you down. Often this is simply the way life plays out; it’s an unfortunate coincidence and nothing more. Sadly, there are also the (hopefully) few times when someone else sees you at a weak or vulnerable moment and takes advantage. But why does this happen at all? Why do we prey on the weak, even when we know it’s wrong? It’s a behavior that reappears throughout history, including in the Torah.

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 21, verse 1 we read, “When the Canaanite, King of Arad, who dwelt in the Negev learned that Israel was coming by the way of Atharim, he engaged Israel in a battle and took some of them captive.” The word used in Hebrew is not really “learned,” as shown in the common translation, but “heard.” When the king heard that Aaron and Miriam had died, he suspected that the morale of the nation would be low due to the loss of these two leaders, and he saw that weakness as a time to attack.

Clearly the King of Arad had his own power-hungry needs at heart, not the needs of another nation. You might argue that this act of aggression was simply a part of warfare; they saw an opportunity and seized it. And my counter argument would be yes, but at what cost? Why create an enemy instead of an ally? Why create more tension where there was less, or even none? Instead of attacking the Israelites when the other nation heard they were at a disadvantage, they could have sent aid.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the uptick in reports in the news about the conditions at the Mexican border. While the debate over immigrant status is a big part of this issue, I’d like to attempt to leave the political divisiveness out for now and focus on how we are treating our fellow humans. Regardless of your stance on how much immigration should be allowed or what that process should entail, the “solutions” we have for these families trying to escape life-threatening situations in their home countries are, in effect, kicking them while they’re down. We’re taking advantage of their dire situation to treat them in a less-than-humane way. I would urge you to question whether this solves the root problem or takes a bad situation and makes it worse.

Waging “war” in any form should be a last resort, not a temporary answer to a problem, because that kind of solution creates more problems than it solves. May this be the lesson we take away from the Torah portion this week.

Amy McCready, the author who created the Positive Parenting Solutions resources, suggests that the real reason children misbehave is not out of defiance. To parents, it may seem like opposition for the sake of opposition, but the underlying reason, according to McCready, is about the need for belonging and significance. “Belonging” is the sense of connection and positive attention we seek in our interactions with others, and “significance” is the sense of autonomy and capability that empowers us.

In her parenting tips, McCready says that children act out when they feel that one of these needs isn’t being met, and she offers disciplinary strategies that work to fulfill these needs rather than offer a temporary solution (yelling, time-outs, etc).

Parshat Chukat, our Torah portion this week, is a perfect illustration of the often-used analogy of the relationship between God and the Israelites to that of parent and child. We have actual examples of how the Israelites revealed a desperate and oppositional nature through their behavior. Here’s a quick summary of the parshah. 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 Moses 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 ends with praise and thanks being sung to God for the water of the well.

In the midst of these major plot points, the Israelites complain about the journey out of Egypt, as we see them do several times. Specifically, in chapter 20, verse 4 the Israelites plead with Moses, “Why did you bring us out to the desert for us and our beasts to die here?” In this moment the congregation is thirsty and discouraged. They left Egypt full of hope and optimism as God’s chosen people, but things are different when they’re “alone” in the desert. They lack belonging and significance. In isolation, they don’t feel the sense of belonging they had in Egypt. As terrible as bondage was, at least they knew they were connecting to something. And in the wilderness, with God and Moshe and Aaron making all the decisions, how could they feel significant? How could they feel like anything other than cattle being moved laboriously to another pasture?

But of course there’s more to this lesson than just a warning about whining in the desert. Even as the Torah shows the negative impact of this tantrum-like behavior, we also see time and again the reminder that things like community and prayer are the antidotes. When we feel disconnected or in turmoil, our Jewish community provides the sense of belonging and the help we need. When we feel like life has spun out of control, prayer offers a sense of significance, a feeling that we do have the power to change for the better.

May we go into Shabbat with feelings of both belonging and significance, and hopefully the tantrums will be few and far between.