Wouldn’t it be nice to get results without putting in the work? Sometimes we call this “magical thinking.” I often wish I could find an easy way out of certain tasks. Whether it’s doing the dishes or changing the bed linens, I wish I could access my inner Samantha from Bewitched and simply wiggle my nose to have everything back where it goes. When I’m nagging the kids to clean their rooms, I wish the magic of Mary Poppins would somehow descend upon our house to get us to the finish line. And do I really have to work out and eat sensibly? Why isn’t healthy living easier? As we learn over the years, results don’t come by magic; they come by putting in the hard work, by gritting your teeth through that last mile, or by bringing in one more bag for trash in the almost clean room.

On the positive side, there’s much more satisfaction to be had from the end of hard work than if no work was required. There are also lessons that can only be learned through putting in the time to accomplish something. The accolades you receive for something you’ve completed feel even better when you know your participation helped get it done. We see this in the Torah too, including when Moses finally takes ownership of his leadership role and when the builders of the Tabernacle take pride in their artisanship. 

As we read Parshat Naso this week, we see the Israelite society trying to move forward after leaving Egypt and establish a successful community. The narrative picks up with a second counting of the people; laws about how we are to treat one another and the property that we own; the blessing of the priests to the people; and the laws of the Nazir, detailing how we might dedicate ourselves directly to God. 

In this section of the narrative, the Israelite nation is ready to move, and they’re working to situate the Tabernacle, the heavy ark constructed of gold and wood, which carries the tablets of stone that God inscribed. This was no lightweight piece of furniture. To move it required all hands on deck. The language suggests that the Levites, those non-land holders, the helper people of the nation not often described as physically strong, were to portage the Tabernacle on their shoulders.

This protected group, for whom the community is supposed to provide, is commanded to take on physical labor for the people. Noting how this physical labor contrasts with their normal roles of washing feet, the Kotzker Rebbe, the great Polish leader and scholar, comments, “One does not acquire the least spark of holiness without effort.” In other words, doing the work is what opens the Levites up to understanding the divine.

So too for us, doing the work allows us to find moments of sanctity, togetherness, and pride in a job well done. To achieve the reward of holy community, or perhaps even any reward at all, we’ve got to do the work. Get dirty, get a little bit sore, and don’t wish away the social and personal growth that’s just as gratifying as the finished product.

I have certain voicemail messages saved on my phones – ones that hold particularly special meaning to me. Two of them are from my father. He left them a week apart (on consecutive Fridays) about two months before he died. I was working as an intern in Chicago, and he called to ask how I was doing and what I was learning, and because it was Friday, he’d end with a word about Shabbat. Part of his Shabbat message was asking how I was celebrating Shabbat with my roommate and friends, and he ended each of the voicemails with the priestly blessing. 

Part of what makes these messages memorable is that growing up, my parents did not bless us each week at the Shabbat table. We had Shabbat dinner, complete with Kiddush and Hamotzi. We had friends over and celebrated Shabbat regularly, but for some reason that one small ritual wasn’t a part of our celebration. My mom later told me that my dad always regretted that decision, and so when I moved to Los Angeles for rabbinical school, he decided to send me an email blessing each week. I still treasure those emails, but the voicemails are prized possessions. I can still hear my father in his own voice and words give me a blessing anytime I need it.

I’ll admit it was especially hard to listen to those voicemails when I was in early grief. To hear my father say “May God grant you peace” while I was angry at God for my father’s death seemed incongruous. To hear him say “May God turn His face towards you and see you” when I felt so unseen seemed empty. But the blessings were still his to me.

As we read Parshat Naso this week, we read about the Israelite society trying to move forward after leaving Egypt and about the establishment of a successful community. The narrative picks up with a second counting of the people; laws about how we are to treat one another and the property that we own; the blessing of the priests to the people; and the laws of the Nazir, detailing how we might dedicate ourselves directly to God. Among these laws is the notion of connection to a community, to God, and to the greater “people.”

The most well-known piece of this text is the Priestly Blessing in chapter 6, verses 24-26. The blessing of the priest unto the people ends with the words “May God turn God’s face in your direction and put upon you peace.” The K’tav Sofer, a 19^th century German commentator, remarks that peace begins in the home, then extends to the community, and finally to all the world. In other words, this moment of blessing one another is the locus of spreading peace, and it requires that we turn our heads toward each other first in order to start a movement of peace that radiates through our surroundings and into our community. 

Pay close attention to the words that describe the action in this blessing: “turn God’s face in your direction.” More important than the blessing itself is simply the idea that there is no peace unless all of us are seen. Just as God cannot grant us peace without first facing us as we are, we too cannot create peace among ourselves until we are all seen, until we are all heard. Just like those few minutes my father carved out for me in the beautiful messages I still have, granting someone that love and attention is perhaps the greatest blessing you can offer.

I remember seeing The Wizard of Oz as a kid and coming to grips with the reality that the wizard was just an ordinary man behind a curtain making it all happen. Most people had nightmares about the Wicked Witch of the West. Me? I had nightmares about a non-magical “wizard.” What scared me more than Margaret Hamilton in green makeup was the possibility that there was a man behind a curtain deciding my fate or possibly that the world had been created in the dream of some giant head that had control over our lives. I feared that if the giant woke up (or the man grew bored) life would cease to exist. This was my earliest foray into philosophy, and it was enough to leave a terrifying impression. No one likes the feeling of being manipulated; it’s our nature to want to be fully aware and fully in control. 

Belief in God runs the gamut – some envision that God is the giant, and we are all being manipulated by God’s every whim, while some believe that human fate is decided by individual free will and God is more like an observer, watching but not pulling the strings every moment.

Our Torah portion this week, Parshat Naso, leads us deeper into the question of where can we find God. In the Torah portion, we read about the Israelite society trying to move forward after leaving Egypt and about the establishment of a successful community. The narrative picks up with a second counting of the people; laws about how we are to treat one another and the property that we own; the blessing of the priests to the people; and the laws of the Nazir, detailing how we might dedicate ourselves directly to God. Among these laws is the notion of connection to a community, to God, and to the greater “people.” 

The text of the parshah ends in the following way: “When Moses went into the Tent of Meeting to speak with Him, he would hear the Voice addressing him from above the cover that was on top of the Ark of the Pact between the two cherubim; thus He spoke to him.” Above the cover on top of the Ark? Is God literally behind the curtain, sharing rules and regulations with Moses?

We don’t get more details because this is where the text ends. We know from other moments in the Torah that Moses is not allowed to see God’s face. In fact, none of us are. But the specific nature of the imagery in this section is striking. Perhaps the “curtain” is another test to see if Moses will continue to follow dutifully the words of God. Or perhaps it is the reminder to us all that sometimes faith means believing without having all the answers.

Self-care isn’t a strength of mine. Often I will not be feeling my best, and instead of taking a day off to recover and heal my stuffy nose or calm a fever, I’ll take some medicine and continue to push through. To me, taking time off means falling behind and letting others down, whether or not that’s always the case. In fact, just this past year I had a book engagement that was accompanied by a 103-degree fever. I felt bad for the people I would potentially let down, so rather than cancel, I rallied, downed some Tylenol, and gave the presentation, while refusing to touch anyone to spare everyone from catching my germs. Of course the problem with this work ethic is that I often end up sicker, more rundown, and less able to do my job than I would have, had I just slowed down in the first place.

I’ll go out on a limb and say this is probably a common occurrence for others as well. When you work hard and take your obligations seriously, maybe self-care isn’t as high a priority as it should be. The reality is, however, that when we’re sick, have a fever, and are run down, the best thing we can do for ourselves and others is stay home and rest, away from large groups of people.

Parshat Naso, the Torah portion we read this week, echoes this sentiment. We read about the Israelite society trying to move forward after leaving Egypt and the establishment of a successful community. The narrative picks up with a second counting of the people; laws about how we are to treat one another and the property that we own; the blessing of the priests to the people; and the laws of the Nazir, detailing how we might dedicate ourselves directly to God. Among these laws is the notion of connection to a community, to God, and to the greater “people.”

Chapter 5, verse 2 reminds us that there were certain milestone moments that required full body and spirit. One of those is at the foot of Mount Sinai, and the Torah even explains that those who were infirm or physically unable to fulfill certain obligations were miraculously healed so they could stand at Sinai. Today, of course, we can’t depend on instantaneous healing; long journeys take a toll on the body, and the Torah is clear that if you are not at your physical best, you must step away from the community in order to heal.

This is the point in the Torah narrative in which the Israelites have formed a society and are creating laws that govern the ways we are to treat each other and our spiritual home. In particular, the text is a reminder that “membership” and belonging anywhere are contingent on taking care of yourself first. If you’re not performing at your optimum level, you’re not much good to the community. While I might want to avoid taking sick days, the reality is that I’m doing more harm than good to myself and our community by coming to work. Although it goes without saying I would gladly partake in some of that miraculous healing if it was offered.

I’ll never forget the one and only time I made the mistake of not listening to my mother’s warning of “Say that again, and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.” I had been practicing asserting my “maturity” in language by using certain curse words. I was asked repeatedly to stop and didn’t heed the warning. Yes, she actually washed my mouth, and rest assured I learned my lesson. Soap leaves a terrible taste, not unlike the words I was using.

I’m not advocating this antiquated consequence, but engaging our senses in symbolism and to understand how our actions might affect others is powerful. Think of how we eat bitter herbs on Passover to remember the bitterness of Egypt. On the happier side, think of the candy thrown and eaten to taste the sweetness of a simcha.

The Torah is full of reminders of ways in which we might physically experience our missteps or cruel actions. One of the most prominent stories of “eating your words” comes out of this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Naso. This section of text is one of the longest in the Torah. In it we read of the different roles of the chiefs of the tribes, the number of Israelites in the army, and the ways in which the camp deals with those who are “other.” We also receive the blessing of the kohanim (the priests) and the laws of the Nazirite.

Also within the words of the text is the story of the Sotah. The Sotah is the woman suspected of betraying her husband, and it involves a strange and somewhat demeaning ritual. The man is to bring his wife forward, and she is put through a series of rituals that include eating barley flour (the flour used for animals), drinking the water of bitterness, and the “loosening” of her hair. Once the woman drinks the potion, if she has betrayed her husband she will show physical signs of change. If not, her body will remain unharmed.

This is a pretty severe take on washing out your mouth, with waters of bitterness matching the bitterness of the situation. It’s similar to when Moses made the Israelite camp drink the ground-up powdered Golden Calf after that bitter incident, a part of the story not as well known.

We might not agree with the severity of these examples from the Bible, but the overarching idea is true. Things that involve more of our senses stick with us. From those certain smells that take you back to your grandmother’s kitchen, to the way you can pick up a musical instrument after many years and still play a song, our senses define our experiences. The more you involve your whole being in anything – Judaism included – the stronger your emotional ties will be.