Yet there remain passionate defenders of the priestly prerogatives, and they, too, have their reasons. First, of course, the Torah itself defines an elaborate role for the tribe of Levi and within it, the descendants of Aaron. In our portion this week we read, “And they shall set My Name upon the children of Israel, and I will bless them.” R’ Yehoshua b. Levi states in the Talmud () that a kohen who refuses to bless the people violates three commandments (for the three times that the Torah instructs kohanim to bless the people).

Beyond the biblical imperative, the priestly blessing also infuses ritual with mystery. Further, it is a deeply meaningful family tradition for many kohanim. Although traditionally women were excluded from the ritual, the CJLS approved a 1994 responsum by Rabbi Mayer Rabinowitz called “,” which argued that women from priestly families also have the ability to bless the community, and therefore may play all of the liturgical roles traditionally assigned to male priests. These reasons suffice for many of our congregations to continue, restore, or initiate the traditional practice of inviting priests to bless the community from the bimah (dukhening) on festivals.

When I was a pulpit rabbi, I served a congregation that was founded in the 1940s, during the height of 20^th-century rationalism, and had never included the ritual of dukhening. With the dawn of the 21^st century and increasing interest in the mystical side of Judaism, as well as in the exploration of family genealogy, I proposed that we institute the priestly blessing on festivals. While most congregants supported the move, and we did indeed begin the practice, others were unhappy and even offended. The most passionate objection was that putting the priests on a pedestal to bless the congregation was not appropriate, because they were not necessarily better models of piety than anyone else. One congregant raised a sensitive concern that this practice would invite others to make unflattering comments along the lines of, “If you knew what I know about Mr. Cohen, you wouldn’t want his blessing.”

This congregant had a good point. Indeed, there are many centuries of literature addressing precisely her concern. In the Talmud Yerushalmi (, 47b), Rav Huna says that even if there is only one kohen (priest) present to say the blessing, the prayer leader should still cry out in the plural, “kohanim,” to show that it is the tribe, not the individual, that offers blessing. He continues: “This is lest a person should say, this kohen has had illicit sex, or shed blood, and now he is going to bless us? God says, the priests will pronounce My name, but I will bless the people.”

Concerns about the attitudes of the people to the priests are explored in the halakhic literature (See ). Some of these concerns seem to be reasonable. For example, according to Rabbi Karo, a kohen who has killed a person, even unintentionally, may never again raise his hands in blessing lest it distract the people, just as the Yerushalmi fears. Even so, Rabbi Moshe Isserles permits a kohen who has killed but then repented to offer blessings, lest his repentance be discouraged. The people are instructed to be forgiving, and thus worthy of the blessing.

What about the attitude of the kohen toward the people? Does it suffice for the kohen to say the words and trust that God will show mercy upon the people, even if the kohen himself is filled with anger or indifference toward them? This is a question where the mystical book of Zohar effectively weaves together the biblical and rabbinic materials to influence the halakhah in a very meaningful fashion. In the book of  we read, “one who is generous will be blessed”; an alternative translation would be, “only a person who looks well upon others may bless them.” In the Talmud () R’ Zeira teaches in the name of R’ Hisda that before uttering the priestly benediction, the kohen says the following blessing: “…who has commanded us regarding the holiness of Aaron, commanding us to bless God’s people Israel with love.” Those final two words, “with love,” imply that the priest needs to be filled with mercy at the time of blessing. The Zohar expands upon this theme (Vol. 3, 147b; see Daniel Matt edition, vol.8, 479f), saying, “Any priest who does not love the people, or whom the people do not love, should not spread his hands to bless the people.” The Zohar cites our verse from Proverbs to prove the point.

So, is it mystical and irrational to invite the priests up to bless the people? Yes, it is, in the best possible sense. When a congregation can set aside its disagreements and accept the blessings of even unpopular members, that is irrational and mysterious. When a kohen who is an otherwise plain person with no leadership profile is nevertheless invited to offer a blessing, and when that person does so with love, that, too, is irrational and mysterious.

Thank God for such irrational and mysterious behaviors! To be critical of each other and filled with harsh judgment is frequently rational and fully justified. We are living in a highly rancorous environment where our worst assumptions of other people are being confirmed each day. Nothing can be more rational than to criticize and even despise our fellow citizens. But the mystery of faith is animated by the power of mercy to overwhelm judgment, and love to banish hatred. When the priests pronounce God’s name in love, then mercy links heaven and earth, and the world becomes fertile with blessing. What is true of the priests is true of each of us—after all, we, too, are commanded to love our neighbors as ourselves. May we summon the irrational and mysterious ability to ignore the faults of others, and to bless them with love. In so doing, may we in turn receive God’s mysterious and irrational blessing.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

In the past months, concerned Jews have been on an emotional roller coaster, much of the time brooding over what may come next. Many of my beloved colleagues note that they have not given many, or any, divrei Torah in the last 7 months that do not connect in some way to October 7th and its aftermath. The ground under us does not feel so stable right now.

In a time of war and division, in a time of rising and shocking antisemitism, in a time when we have seen the narratives of how our people are perceived change, we need to lift each other up with words of blessing, because ultimately, we need hope. More than anything else I believe we need to name our blessings, and help others to feel blessed, so that our souls can find ways to move forward.

In Parashat Naso we learn the blessing used by so many, called birkat kohanim, the blessing of the priests. Amid our longest parashah, nestled between laws of the Nazirites and final preparations for how to use the Tabernacle, our holy space, God teaches that people can use their words and actions to bless one another, all while noting that our blessings come from The Holy One.

The Holy One (Adonai) speaks to Moses with instructions for Aaron and his sons (the priests) for how to bless the People of Israel. You know these sacred words. Someone sang them to you at your naming or britor at your bat or bar mitzvah. Maybe you remember a parent whispering them to you on a Friday night, or you might be the one who offers this blessing to another: 

Many commentators look for meaning in each word, and even in the order of the blessing. The 20th-century Torah scholar Nehama Leibowitz wrote that:

. . . the three sections of the priestly benedictions illustrate an order, starting with a blessing concerned with man’s [people’s] material needs and then dealing with his [her/their] spiritual wants, and finally reaching a climax combining both these factors together, crowning them with the blessing of peace. This ascending order and increasing surge of blessing is reflected in the language and rhythm.

(Studies in Bamidbar, 67)

Leibowitz teaches that the blessing deals with physical and spiritual gifts, and that until one’s material needs—like sustenance, shelter, and protection—are met, it is difficult to experience grace or wholeness. She helps us consider that the very cadence of the text, the repeating of God’s name, the nostalgia of these words, and their aspirational nature can bring us comfort and even hope. We also learn that though blessings come from God, they can also flow through the words of people. 

Elsewhere in our Torah we read that “Aaron lifted his hands towards the people and blessed them . . .” (Lev. 9:22). Rashi says that this was the priestly benediction. Why did Aaron lift his hands? Ramban notes that “it is possible that Aaron spread his hands out towards heaven and then blessed the people . . ..” This might indicate that Aaron’s hands were facing up to God, in the form of a plea, and not towards, or on, the person receiving a blessing. That is certainly not how most of us picture this scene but visualizing it differently allows us the possibility to understand God’s greater involvement in the blessing. Placing our hands on or towards another reminds us to see and feel their humanity. Also, perhaps the fact that Aaron “lifts his hands” is a reminder to us to bless others not only with our words, but with the work of our hands. 

As a mamlekhet kohanim, a sovereignty of priests, we each have the ability, and dare I say obligation, to bless others with our words and with our deeds. So many people in our lives need protection, first and foremost. And we all need so much kindness and grace right now. We live with much brokenness in our world and we as individuals, our country, and Israel need a sense that we can strive to create shalom—peace and wholeness—even when it seems far away. And we need to hear this from people who know and love us.

Birkat kohanim can be the start of a berakhah (blessing) that we give to another, but not its end. We should continue with our own words that are specific to the needs of the person or people in front of us. I learned this from our teacher Rabbi Naomi Levy, who one day asked colleagues to listen to each other and to then give another a berakhah that they specifically need.

The berakhah that we give to others can also be reminiscent of Aaron lifting his hands. It can literally be the work of our hands: bringing a meal, driving someone to a doctor’s appointment, being present for them in their time of vulnerability, helping them in concrete ways to feel a bit more whole. This week can we endeavor to bless others with both this moving, ancient text, and with new, individualized prayers for others? This week I hope that you can extend to someone else the blessings of having enough, of being and feeling protected, of sensing God’s presence, of experiencing kindness, grace, and wholeness. Shabbat Shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

I mention this because this week’s Torah portion includes the blessing that the priests are supposed to bestow upon the people of Israel. A standard translation follows:

May God bless you and watch over you.

May God shine God’s face towards you and show you favor.

May God lift up God’s face to you and grant you peace.

(Num. 6:24–26)

Anyone I know who grew up in a synagogue where the kohanim dukhened on the Yamim Tovim remembers this as one of the peak moments of their synagogue experience. There are many reasons for this: the strange sight of men (and now women) standing with their hands extended and with their heads and upper faces covered by tallitot, the fact that we were in fact not to gaze upon this startling spectacle, and the sense of protection afforded to those of us whose parents covered them with their own tallitot during the rendering of the blessing in order to protect them from the potentially harmful effects of looking upon the kohanim. In my college days, a must-read book was The Idea of the Holy by Rudolph Otto, which posited that holiness is a potentially dangerous force. Divine power is infinitely greater than ours; our frail beings can only hold so much Godly energy. To be exposed to too much divine power or to receive it when one is unworthy of receiving it results in a sort of energy overload that can be fatal; think of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Abihu. Our being told that we could be blinded by looking at the kohanim as they blessed us was an expression of that notion.

Birkat Kohanim was also the only time in a prayer service when each word of a liturgy was chanted slowly, not once but twice: first by the prayer leader and then by the kohanim. The power of the blessing derived in part from the attention lavished on each and every word, suggesting that each had an inherent power apart from its role in creating one of the verses of the blessing.

The structure of the blessing also lends to its liturgical power. It consists of three verses of three, then five, then seven words, a gradual increase. This symbolizes what we often imagine blessing to be, growing and prospering over time.

Each verse is actually two blessings, each ending with the syllables “ekha” or something similar (indicating the blessing’s object)—with the exception of the final blessing, which ends with the word “shalom,” peace. God’s name is the second word in each verse, making it clear that it is God, not the kohanim, who is the source of the blessing; the priests are merely a conduit for conveying God’s bounty. The Torah itself makes this clear “And they [the priests] shall place my name upon Israel and I will bless them” (Num. 6:27).

In many homes, it is the practice to bless one’s children with the Priestly Blessing on Friday night. I do my best to call my children, my sons-in-law, and my grandchildren Thursday night or Friday to bestow the Birkat Kohanim upon them. If I can’t deliver the berakhah in real time I leave a voice message or even, if necessary, a text. My manner of delivery varies from recipient to recipient. Some require an accompanying English translation, some don’t. For young grandchildren, my delivery must be quick and funny. When the call is made close to the beginning of Shabbat, or my children are busy being parents or are at work, I must be briskly efficient, doing my best to recite the words quickly while still lavishing upon them the attention they deserve. I enjoy most bestowing the berakhah after having had a long conversation with a child or grandchild about their week and mine. It is a way of enriching our relationship by invoking God’s presence.

I don’t know what my children and grandchildren believe about the berakhah they are receiving. What I know is that as a parent and grandparent it is a way of expressing my love and concern for those I care about. I also treasure the fact that I recite the same words each week for each family member. After all, how can I know what blessing would serve each of them best? And even if I did, if I used my own words, I would be expressing nothing more than a hope. Using God’s words enables me to say: I don’t know what would be best for you. I leave it in the hands of a Power greater than both of us to have the wisdom to know, and I ask that Power to bring the blessing you need to fruition.

May each of us receive the blessing we need and the wisdom to know that we have received it.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Numbers 7:89 describes what transpires between God and Moses at the Tent of Meeting. In doing so, it uses an unusual verb that I’ll leave untranslated for now:

When Moses came to the Tent of Meeting to speak with Him, he heard the voice middabbeir-ing to him from above the covering that was on top of Ark of the Covenant, from between the two kerubim, and He spoke to him.  

To understand what the Torah tells us about God’s way of talking to Moses, we need to realize that the word our verse uses for God’s speaking, middabbeir, is quite rare. It is related to another verb that means “speak,” ��’d�������𾱰�, which appears over a thousand times in the Bible. But the verb middabbeir shows up only three or four times in the Bible.[1] The grammatical construction of the verb as it appears in our verse is known as the �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� (whereas the much more frequent construction, ��’d�������𾱰�, is known as a �辱’e�� verb).^[2] The �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� construction carries several types of meaning. It describes a reciprocal action—that is, action that goes back and forth between two parties. (In modern Hebrew, the verb mitkatteiv, “correspond, exchange mail,” is an example of this use of the �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� verb.) If middabbeir conveys that sort of meaning in our verse, then it refers to communication that moves back and forth between God and Moses. In this case, the Priestly author of our verse is telling us that the revelation of the law was not just a top-down affair; it involved some degree of dialogue between God and Moses. This conception of revelation fits well with five other Priestly passages in the Torah, where Moses and the Israelites request clarification from God on specific points of law and God responds by producing new legislation that answers the questions they ask. This Priestly picture of lawgiving as being at least in part dialogical, as involving some sort of human input and not just divine decree, may be indicated in our verse through the �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� verb it uses.

Additional possibilities exist as well. Sometimes the �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� construction conveys ongoing action, which suggests that we can translate our verb, “he would hear the voice continually speaking to him,” “he would hear the voice as it went on speaking to him.” (This understanding is suggested by the modern biblical commentators Baruch Levine and Everett Fox.) Further, the construction often conveys a reflexive meaning—that is, it describes an action that people do to themselves. This possibility leads Rashi to suggest that this voice “would speak to itself, and Moses would hear on his own”—that is, at the Tent, Moses somehow attained access to God’s internal ruminations. These various meanings, it should be clear, are not mutually exclusive; it’s possible that all of them or several of them are implied at once in Numbers 7:89.

By choosing this rare �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� verb to explain what took place when God communicated with Moses, our text suggests that this communication was not a simple matter of speaking in the way that humans speak. A voice that entails both giving and taking information, or one that allows for continuous rather than punctual communication, or for overhearing internal dialogue, is not a voice speaking in any normal sense of the word. The phrasing of our verse indicates that its description applies to all the times God communicated laws to Moses. It informs us that whatever communication transpired when Moses went to the Tent differs from what happens when one human talks to another human. In its own subtle and allusive way, then, Numbers 7:89 is making a significant theological claim similar to one that Maimonides would much later expound in The Guide of the Perplexed: God doesn’t literally speak, and whenever the Torah refers to God as “speaking,” we need to understand that something much more complex and mysterious was occurring.

This sense is especially strong in one other possible meaning of our verb. The �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� construction can denote simulation—that is, it can be used when the subject of the verb acts as if he were doing something. For example, in 2 Samuel 13:5 the verb ������ḥa������� means “pretend to be sick”; in Genesis 42:7 and 1 Kings 14:5–6, the verb mitnakkeir means “act like a stranger.” If our verse employs this sense of the �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� construction, then our narrative is indicating that “speaking” is not something that the deity really does, and whenever the narrator attaches the verb “speak” to the subject “God,” it intends something different from that verb’s usual meaning. God’s “speaking” is something that only a prophet has experienced, and therefore something for which no word exists among us non-prophets who make up the narrative’s audience. My use of quotes in the previous sentence, in fact, may be exactly what the Priestly authors of our passage intend when they use the strange �󾱳ٱ貹’e�� form of this verb: it reminds us that God’s “speaking” is not really speaking at all.

In that case, mattan Torah or lawgiving did not involve God literally pronouncing or writing the words we find in the Torah. God’s commands to the nation Israel were not conveyed in language, and one of the most important roles played by Moses, by the prophets who came after him, and by the sages who succeeded them, has been to translate God’s communications into human terms. The process of parshanut or interpretation, then, did not begin after the revelation of the Torah. Instead, interpretation was part of the ongoing, dialogical process of revelation itself. Interpretation is not only an activity that is performed on the Torah; interpretation helped to create the Torah. We read each day in the paragraph that precedes the Shema in the Morning Service that all Jews have the responsibility of studying and teaching the law, fulfilling it and guarding it. When we do so, we continue Moses’ work: by studying and interpreting the law, we contribute to the ongoing process of creating the law anew. Since we celebrated the holiday of Shavuot, the season of the giving of the law, earlier this week, now is a good time to think about this lesson from the little-noticed but highly important verse that concludes our parashah.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

[1] It appears in Ezekiel 2:2 and 43:6 (which also describe communication between God and a prophet), and possibly in 2 Samuel 14:13 (but scholars debate the identity of the verb there).

^[2]People familiar with Hebrew grammar may wonder: If this verb is a �󾱳ٱ貹’e��, why does it have no letter tav? The letter tav, after all, is the characteristic feature of a �󾱳ٱ貹��’e�� verb. But that tav acts oddly when it comes right next to the letter dalet. In modern Hebrew the tav converts into a zayin when it’s next to a dalet (for example, in the verb mizdaqqein, “grow old”). But in biblical Hebrew the tav in this situation converts into a dageish, the dot found inside the dalet in a printed Hebrew text of the Bible, yielding our form, middabbeir.

It is a beautiful moment in this week’s parashah: God asks Moses to instruct Aaron and his sons to bless B’nei Yisrael on God’s behalf. Not only is the sentiment and poetry of the priestly blessing stirring in and of itself, but given its use in contemporary religious life, it carries even further resonance. In Jewish households across the world, parents offer this blessing to their children as part of their Friday night ritual. In my own experience, I have vivid memories of my grandparents and parents blessing me and my sisters with these words, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to do the same for my children each Shabbat. Those few precious moments—where my husband and I get to hold each of our kids, whisper these ancient verses, and kiss them “Shabbat shalom”—have become a sacred occasion in our home. I’ve repeated these phrases now over many weeks and years and, at times, with little thought to the meaning behind the words. A closer reading of the text, though, has affirmed for me some essential parenting lessons.

It goes without saying—parenting is challenging work. Given the chaos of our day to day and, especially, the additional difficulties this year has posed, we are not always our best selves.  We can get frustrated and short-tempered, and when homework isn’t done and siblings are arguing, it can be hard to remember our children’s better qualities. The priestly blessing on Friday night can serve as a necessary reset: we are messengers of God’s blessings, but the blessings we bestow are entirely God’s. As Jacob Milgrom notes in his commentary on the book of Numbers, the wording of our passage underscores the priests’ role in blessing B’nei Yisrael. “The blessing issues solely from [God]; the priests’ function is to channel it.” In this way, parents are reminded—each week—that, despite the difficulties and frustrations, our children are sources of blessing and imbued with godliness, and parents are partners with God in the growth and development of their unique gifts.

And while the words are the same, the blessing is to be given to each child individually, “al pi darko,” according to their own individual path (Proverbs 22:6). Although given from Aaron and his sons to all of B’nei Yisrael, the blessing is written in the singular: God blesses you, each individual person. It extends to all, but it is meant to be received as a private communication. Here, too, we are sending our kids a powerful message: you matter, and we see you for who and all you are.

By engaging in this ritual (and in many of our other Jewish observances), we are also supporting our kids’ emergent spirituality. In her book The Spiritual Child, Lisa Miller explains that children who have meaningful and robust spiritual lives thrive relative to their peers: they are more optimistic, happier, flexible, and are better equipped to handle life’s inevitable twists and turns. Miller is unequivocal about a parent’s role in this; parents, she contends, are “ambassador(s) of transcendence, the guide(s) on the ground who introduce a child to the spiritually attuned life” (p. 90). While recognizing that children’s spiritual development can happen outside religion and often does, it regularly occurs through shared religious practice. This Friday night ritual, then, can be a powerful instrument in our parenting toolbox, a weekly opportunity to foster our children’s spiritual connections and an intimate reminder of God’s presence in the world. 

What an honor and a responsibility it is to offer blessing on God’s behalf.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

At first glance, the details of which family is to carry which piece of equipment seem trivial at best. Why does the Torah spend time laying out what color cloth the items are to be packed in? These passages seem akin to the whaling chapters in Moby Dick—perhaps included because of the author’s fondness for the whaling industry, but widely considered acceptable to skip. Was the biblical author especially fascinated by the logistics of moving a portable sanctuary through a desert? By the time this text was authored, the period during which the Mishkan was disassembled and transported would have passed, so do these passages serve as mere academic detail?

The rabbinic commentators are similarly concerned with these specifics. Perhaps they take their cues from the biblical text, thinking that if the minutiae of the Mishkan’s transportation are important enough to include in the Torah, they are important enough to study and explicate. It seems to me, however, that their interest offers a clue that there’s more relevance to these details than we might suspect at first glance: a closer look at these passages reveals crucial lessons about how effective operational procedures, often seen as trivial, are in fact critically important. This message is especially relevant today, as we contend with a global pandemic. Let’s look at these passages in more detail.

The first of the family responsibilities in the parashah is that of the Gershonites. They are responsible for the fabric that covers the Mishkan, as well as the partitions and the altar and its relevant equipment. In verse 27 we learn that these responsibilities are “performed on orders from Aaron and his sons,” who oversee how all the items will be carried. Ramban notes that this oversight is very hands-on: Aaron or one of the other high priests assigns a specific Levite to a specific task, saying, “This particular Gershonite shall be the overseer for such and such a matter . . . or shall carry a certain number of the curtains.” Though we have no Mishkan to move, the same principles apply to us in the twenty-first century. In any massive organizational effort, it is important to develop a leadership structure and assign clear roles to avoid duplication of effort and ensure that someone is directly responsible for carrying out each task.

The second family is the Merarites. In verses 31–32 we learn that they carry the planks, bars, posts, and sockets. They are also responsible for the pegs, pins, and cords—things that are tiny, but crucial. While it is apparent that the Mishkan requires its ritual items and fabrics, its very structure depends on pins and pegs. The fact that these items are specifically listed teaches the reader that attention to detail is key— especially, in a large undertaking where it is easy to get distracted by the big, obvious, or, quite frankly, more interesting pieces. In our COVID-19 era, one such detail is that handwashing for 20 seconds is significantly more effective than doing so for shorter periods. Before February, this detail wasn’t one we paid much attention to, but now we know that a few more seconds may be the difference between staying safe or becoming infected.

The other Levite family, described in the beginning of chapter 4 (in last week’s parashah), is the Kohatites. Their responsibilities included the items from the Sanctuary: the Menorah, the Ark of the Covenant, the table of the showbread, and all the assorted vessels and utensils used for the ritual service. These items are covered and packed by the Kohanim (the priests responsible for religious rites), who then supervise the Kohatites in carrying the load. 4:15 specifies that only after the items are covered should the Kohatites carry them—if they touch the holy items, they will die! While the Bible’s concern seems to be with violating a ritual taboo, we too must entrust our safety to more qualified experts—in our case, medical professionals—who ensure our safety. We, like the Kohatites, are unqualified to take matters into our own hands. When public health experts give guidance about the best way to stem a pandemic, everyone must listen to them. These are life-and-death risks that are best addressed by those with the relevant expertise.

Though we are not engaged in moving the Mishkan, we are in the midst of an even bigger effort. While this particular pandemic is new, some key lessons are found in Numbers 4:

• Create a leadership structure and respect its authority.
• Pay attention to the smallest details, as they can determine the success of the endeavor.
• Place trust in qualified authorities, especially when it is a matter of protecting life.

Naso starts with a census, an attempt to ascertain which Levites are available for critical work. This information, and the way it is used, is key to the success of moving the Mishkan. For our global effort to contain the spread of COVID-19 to succeed, we as a society must all work together to stop the spread of the virus.

In my experience volunteering as a disaster responder for the American Red Cross in New York City, the situations that ended up working out for the best were those where the affected individual took responsibility for their own recovery. Though we can’t control when disasters happen to us, we do have control over the way we respond. By taking charge of our actions, we can change the course of a disaster and diminish its impact. In the current global crisis, each of us has the opportunity to reduce the effects of COVID-19. Though the roles we are given may feel as minor as carrying the pins and pegs of the Mishkan, Naso teaches us that can make a significant difference. May our collective efforts yield success.

The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

I have always wondered—why did God divide up the care of the Mishkan in this way? Was there some connection between the performance of a set of responsibilities related only to the external care of the Mishkan and the character formation of these Levite families? What would the families of Gershon and Merari gain from this very physical role of maintaining the structure of the Mishkan? What would they learn through this set of very repetitive and mundane motions that revolved around maintaining the structure of the Mishkan and not around overseeing the worship that took place within it?

As a parent, I often ask myself: What experiences will have an effect on my children? What responsibilities will form them as Jews and solidify their Jewish identities? I, like, many Jewish parents, look to the Jewish day school, to the Jewish camp, to Jewish programming, and, of course, to our synagogue. I presume that by placing my sons within a Jewish institution, I will be assured of success. But, when I think about my own upbringing in the context of this week’s parashah, it brings to mind the commitment of my own parents to building a makeshift synagogue in their home to mark the occasion of my bat mitzvah. To this day, I feel that it was more than a coincidence that the value placed on the act of constructing the Mishkan in this parashah happened to be found in my bat mitzvah parashah, Naso. I learned the skill of reading from the Torah through this parashah while my family engaged in the complicated process of turning our everyday home into a sacred space, using cloths and posts and pegs and planks (literally!).

At the time when I turned 13, women were just beginning to read from the Torah on Shabbat mornings in Conservative synagogues; it was a time of transition. Our synagogue, unfortunately, despite every petition and letter and rant we could muster, would not change its ritual position. It would not become egalitarian. Risking his relationship with our rabbi and dear family friend, my father boldly suggested to me one evening that we could build our own synagogue, our own aron kodesh (ark for the Torah), and design our own service just so that I could read from the Torah. We could make it happen. And so, my bat mitzvah became a moment that was just as much about learning to read from the Torah as it was about building a place where I could make this happen.

As I think about the experience of my bat mitzvah today in conjunction with the charge to the families of Gershon and Merari, it reminds me that we often focus our attentions on the rituals themselves. We want to know what a ritual means, what it represents. We want the act of reading from the Torah to be transformative in the lives of a bar or bat mitzvah child. However, we often overlook the significance of the structures that must be in place in order to perform such rituals. We forget about the preparation, even the construction of particular contexts or communities necessary for performing this ritual in a meaningful way.

The descendants of Gershon and Merari had to go to great lengths to ensure that there was a Mishkan in the desert before any type of worship could occur. I see in their role what I saw in my own parents: a sense of boundless commitment to a process. I witnessed firsthand the lengths to which my parents went to ensure that I could stand before the Torah; this is what left the largest impression on me. The sense of Jewish identity that they instilled within me emerged from their commitment to building the context in which I could perform the ritual that would define me as a bat mitzvah. It was all about how they gave me the gift of Torah. I only hope that I can do the same for my own children.

This commentary was first published in 5771. The publication and distribution of the 91���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).