 | I intend my weekly Torah writings to be about more than the Torah portion. I tend to see in nearly every portion both the flow of spirit and community far more than myself, and universal values that transcend any particular time, place and context. But right now, for personal reasons I see Torah reflecting back at me my own situation. – and in particular my own personal wilderness, what I might learn there, and how I might redeem it. Even so, I sense that my present experience isn't much different than most everyone's at one time or another. As for me, perhaps also for you. |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Bamidbar 5786 (2026)
Torah's fourth book, Numbers, opens this week with the "numbers" of a national census. (That was my subject last year at this time: "Who Counts?")
Meanwhile we're also on the runway for Shavuot (this year, May 21-23), our Festival of Gifting Torah, which always aligns with our entry into the Book of Numbers that begins "in the wilderness of Sinai" (Num. 1:1). We always receive Torah "in the wilderness" (literally Bamidbar, our portion's name). Torah comes "in the wilderness" precisely where nothing is owned or limited by human means – where we face profound truths of what we cannot control. (That was my subject two years ago at this time: "How to Receive Torah.")
This year, in the wilderness I can't see past my own present experience.
My mom is unwell, perhaps very unwell: we'll know more in the coming weeks. Her situation is the first thing I see in the morning, the last I see at night, and seemingly the only thing I fully see most days in between. Most everything else feels out of focus, a blur. Anyone who's cared for a beloved knows this experience.
This is my wilderness. If I'm deeply honest, I count a census of days until the next medical visit, hours until the next medication, and minutes until I can hold her hand, share a laugh or cry, or watch her sleep. Lately I find myself counting sands of time as they spill from life's hourglass, keenly aware of its flow grain by grain, unsure how much might be left.
This is my wilderness right now. Surely you've had your own. We all do.
However any of us are from time to time – whatever our circumstances and attitudes, wants and needs, loves and losses, hopes and dreams, fears and aspirations – these are the inward landscape in which Torah is given to each of us, no less than a literal wilderness like Sinai.
There is no other way, I imagine. That's part of what it means for Jewish spirituality to happen in real time, in reality-based reality.
Life uses life to teach us. Our spiritual curriculum takes a form that looks just like us. Life's preciousness and fragility, the absurdity of some of the stories we tell ourselves, the fallacy that we really can (or, ultimately, need to) protect our hearts from feeling, our penchant to distance love or wait until tomorrow or think we're all that when ultimately we all go – these are part of everyone's learning at one time or another if we pay attention.
After all, how else to truly learn how to love "with all our hearts, with all our souls, and with all we've got" except at risk of loss? How else to learn generosity except when giving seems most difficult? How else to learn gratitude except when blessings seem small, fleeting or distant? How else to learn to shine except in the dark?
We redeem the wilderness not by evading it or by pretending it away, or by trying to tame it. We redeem the wilderness by opening to its full reality and letting it teach us what only the wilderness can. Maybe that's why Torah records that our ancestors were freed from Egyptian bondage to wander the wilderness, why Torah was given there, and why most of Torah happens there.
Maybe in the wilderness is the most profound way of all to learn of the One we call God.
Shavuot will begin at sundown on Thursday, May 21. Our congregational Yizkor (online) will begin at 7:30pm on Saturday, May 23. Please click here to register. You may wish to have a Yizkor candle, wine or juice, and photos of beloveds.
Bamidbar 5786 (2026)
Torah's fourth book, Numbers, opens this week with the "numbers" of a national census. (That was my subject last year at this time: "Who Counts?")
Meanwhile we're also on the runway for Shavuot (this year, May 21-23), our Festival of Gifting Torah, which always aligns with our entry into the Book of Numbers that begins "in the wilderness of Sinai" (Num. 1:1). We always receive Torah "in the wilderness" (literally Bamidbar, our portion's name). Torah comes "in the wilderness" precisely where nothing is owned or limited by human means – where we face profound truths of what we cannot control. (That was my subject two years ago at this time: "How to Receive Torah.")
This year, in the wilderness I can't see past my own present experience.
My mom is unwell, perhaps very unwell: we'll know more in the coming weeks. Her situation is the first thing I see in the morning, the last I see at night, and seemingly the only thing I fully see most days in between. Most everything else feels out of focus, a blur. Anyone who's cared for a beloved knows this experience.
This is my wilderness. If I'm deeply honest, I count a census of days until the next medical visit, hours until the next medication, and minutes until I can hold her hand, share a laugh or cry, or watch her sleep. Lately I find myself counting sands of time as they spill from life's hourglass, keenly aware of its flow grain by grain, unsure how much might be left.
This is my wilderness right now. Surely you've had your own. We all do.
However any of us are from time to time – whatever our circumstances and attitudes, wants and needs, loves and losses, hopes and dreams, fears and aspirations – these are the inward landscape in which Torah is given to each of us, no less than a literal wilderness like Sinai.
There is no other way, I imagine. That's part of what it means for Jewish spirituality to happen in real time, in reality-based reality.
Life uses life to teach us. Our spiritual curriculum takes a form that looks just like us. Life's preciousness and fragility, the absurdity of some of the stories we tell ourselves, the fallacy that we really can (or, ultimately, need to) protect our hearts from feeling, our penchant to distance love or wait until tomorrow or think we're all that when ultimately we all go – these are part of everyone's learning at one time or another if we pay attention.
After all, how else to truly learn how to love "with all our hearts, with all our souls, and with all we've got" except at risk of loss? How else to learn generosity except when giving seems most difficult? How else to learn gratitude except when blessings seem small, fleeting or distant? How else to learn to shine except in the dark?
We redeem the wilderness not by evading it or by pretending it away, or by trying to tame it. We redeem the wilderness by opening to its full reality and letting it teach us what only the wilderness can. Maybe that's why Torah records that our ancestors were freed from Egyptian bondage to wander the wilderness, why Torah was given there, and why most of Torah happens there.
Maybe in the wilderness is the most profound way of all to learn of the One we call God.
Shavuot will begin at sundown on Thursday, May 21. Our congregational Yizkor (online) will begin at 7:30pm on Saturday, May 23. Please click here to register. You may wish to have a Yizkor candle, wine or juice, and photos of beloveds.
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