 | Just about all humans have the propensity to lose it. Something gets our goat. Something rubs us wrong. Something deep inside ferments and bubbles over. A slow burn suddenly flames out. When we judge harshly, or lose our temper, or lash out, it can seem like we are responding first and foremost to whatever "something" has our immediate attention – whatever offense, real or imagined, might provoke us in the moment. In those moments, however, the emotional and spiritual reality can be hidden from us – unless we seek it with all our integrity and courage. |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Hukkat-Balak 5786 (2026)
These times are anxious and angry. From politics to social media to highways, tempers seem to run hot and patience runs short. Far more than before, more and more people seep in more conflict, complexity, judgment, impulsivity and outrage.
It's not normal – what's normal about this era's over-abundance of outrages and excesses? – but increasingly they can come to feel routine. Grievance and impatience seem to touch most everything – chance encounters, relationships, work contexts, community dynamics, politics from local or global, and much else in between.
Amidst genuine injustice, anxiety and anger can be healthy. Anger can be jet fuel to propel introspection, self-care and change. Dr. King was justifiably angry; most prophets were justifiably angry. But as Alan Morinis reminds us in his book Everyday Holiness, there is a big difference between holy anger that impels us to right wrongs, and hostility that can't see beyond itself.
When we forget the difference in the heat of the moment, often it's because something else is afoot – and often it takes all our integrity and courage to see what it really is.
In this week's Torah portion, Moses lost it. He was tired of ceaseless complaints, worn down by bickering and endless needs, and furious about faithless rebels claiming morality. When the people complained of thirst, God told Moses to speak to a rock so that it would gush with water as the next of God's many miracles. Instead, in pique and hostility, Moses struck the rock and barked at the people (Numbers 20:10):
Hukkat-Balak 5786 (2026)
These times are anxious and angry. From politics to social media to highways, tempers seem to run hot and patience runs short. Far more than before, more and more people seep in more conflict, complexity, judgment, impulsivity and outrage.
It's not normal – what's normal about this era's over-abundance of outrages and excesses? – but increasingly they can come to feel routine. Grievance and impatience seem to touch most everything – chance encounters, relationships, work contexts, community dynamics, politics from local or global, and much else in between.
Amidst genuine injustice, anxiety and anger can be healthy. Anger can be jet fuel to propel introspection, self-care and change. Dr. King was justifiably angry; most prophets were justifiably angry. But as Alan Morinis reminds us in his book Everyday Holiness, there is a big difference between holy anger that impels us to right wrongs, and hostility that can't see beyond itself.
When we forget the difference in the heat of the moment, often it's because something else is afoot – and often it takes all our integrity and courage to see what it really is.
In this week's Torah portion, Moses lost it. He was tired of ceaseless complaints, worn down by bickering and endless needs, and furious about faithless rebels claiming morality. When the people complained of thirst, God told Moses to speak to a rock so that it would gush with water as the next of God's many miracles. Instead, in pique and hostility, Moses struck the rock and barked at the people (Numbers 20:10):
| שִׁמְעוּ־נָא֙ הַמֹּרִ֔ים הֲמִן־הַסֶּ֣לַע הַזֶּ֔ה נוֹצִ֥יא לָכֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ | Listen up, you rebels, will we get water for you out of this rock?” |
For Moses' outburst, his self-aggrandizement rather than abiding faith, God told Moses that he too would not enter the land. The holiest and most humble of people lost it, and lost his future.
Why? To answer that question, we must go back a few sentences, and discover that everyone was affected by something they weren't talking about (Numbers 20:1-10):
Why? To answer that question, we must go back a few sentences, and discover that everyone was affected by something they weren't talking about (Numbers 20:1-10):
| וַתָּמָת שָׁם מִרְיָם וַתִּקָּבֵר שָׁם: וְלֹא־הָיָה מַיִם לָעֵדָה וַיִּקָּהֲלוּ עַל־מֹשֶׁה וְעַל־אַהֲרֹן: וַיָּרֶב הָעָם עִם־מֹשֶׁה וַיֹּאמְרוּ לֵאמֹר ... לָמָה הֶעֱלִיתֻנוּ מִמִּצְרַיִם לְהָבִיא אֹתָנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם הָרָע הַזֶּה לֹא מְקוֹם זֶרַע וּתְאֵנָה וְגֶפֶן וְרִמּוֹן וּמַיִם אַיִן לִשְׁתּוֹת: ... וַיְדַבֵּר יהו''ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר: קַח אֶת־הַמַּטֶּה וְהַקְהֵל אֶת־הָעֵדָה אַתָּה וְאַהֲרֹן אָחִיךָ וְדִבַּרְתֶּם אֶל־הַסֶּלַע לְעֵינֵיהֶם וְנָתַן מֵימָיו וְהוֹצֵאתָ לָהֶם מַיִם מִן־הַסֶּלַע וְהִשְׁקִיתָ אֶת־הָעֵדָה וְאֶת־בְּעִירָם: וַיִּקַּח מֹשֶׁה אֶת־הַמַּטֶּה מִלִּפְנֵי יהו''ה כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּהוּ: וַיַּקְהִלוּ מֹשֶׁה וְאַהֲרֹן אֶת־הַקָּהָל אֶל־פְּנֵי הַסָּלַע וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם שִׁמְעוּ־נָא הַמֹּרִים הֲמִן־הַסֶּלַע הַזֶּה נוֹצִיא לָכֶם מָיִם | Miriam died there and was buried there. There was no water for the people. They congregated against Moses and Aaron, quarreling, ... "Why did you raise us up from Egypt to bring us to this evil place without seeds, figs, vines or pomegranates, without water to drink?" YHVH spoke to Moses saying, "Take your staff, assemble the people – you and Aaron – and speak to the rock before their eyes, and it will give forth water before their eyes, so you can give water to the congregation and their livestock." Moses took the staff from before YHVH as God commanded; Moses and Aaron gathered the congregation before the rock and said to them, "Listen up, you rebels, will we get water for you out of this rock?” |
Miriam had died. Everyone was feeling grief, but Torah says nothing about time to grieve. Folks were out of sorts – the people, and also Moses and Aaron, Miriam's brothers. Moses was in such straits that when he called the people "rebels" (מֹּרִים), he used a Hebrew word with the exact same letters as... Miriam (מִרְיָם). Talk about Freudian slips!*
– (*I made this observation myself, and only later discovered that Dr. Ora Horn Prouser, dean of the Academy for Jewish Religion, published it long ago in Torah: A Women's Commentary.)
A past hurt that wasn't grieved became really the only thing Moses could fully see and feel. The people went thirsty but could only lament. Put just a bit different, Moses and the people reacted not mainly to what was happening now (thirst) but to what happened before (loss).
When we lose it, when anger ferments into hostility, often it's due to something unrelated. The details are deeply personal to each of us. It might be an ungrieved loss, a sharp feeling that seems familiar but rooted in something different, an inner hardness that crept up on us, something suppressed, a nostalgic lament for better times long ago, a diminished sense of self, a fear of losing control or standing, or a fear of the future.
We might not be aware of it in real time. We might be so focused on the sharpness of our current emotion – and justifying it – that we fail to see its true source rooted partly in stuff entirely different. It's not that anger always is unhealthy – not at all – but that anger that becomes hard and hostile often is about something else.
Much has changed in our world in just the last decade. Many wrongs have gone unrighted. It's scary, and to boot there are forces that feed off fears and manipulate them. I suspect that is why there's so much vitriol nowadays. I suspect that's why folks are more prone to lose it.
What can we do? When we lose it, we can be gentle with ourselves and each other, bringing compassion to both the object of ire and the people who act out. (Compassion isn't the same as validation.) We can summon the wisdom to know that what triggers people isn't just (or even primarily) what's happening now but deeper-seated things in personal and collective pasts that tend to hide in darkness, hidden even from ourselves.
In this very recognition, in acknowledging even the possibility, there can be spaciousness and a path toward inner integrity, healing and wholeness.
Rosh Hashanah is in 11 weeks. The long, slow turn begins.
– (*I made this observation myself, and only later discovered that Dr. Ora Horn Prouser, dean of the Academy for Jewish Religion, published it long ago in Torah: A Women's Commentary.)
A past hurt that wasn't grieved became really the only thing Moses could fully see and feel. The people went thirsty but could only lament. Put just a bit different, Moses and the people reacted not mainly to what was happening now (thirst) but to what happened before (loss).
When we lose it, when anger ferments into hostility, often it's due to something unrelated. The details are deeply personal to each of us. It might be an ungrieved loss, a sharp feeling that seems familiar but rooted in something different, an inner hardness that crept up on us, something suppressed, a nostalgic lament for better times long ago, a diminished sense of self, a fear of losing control or standing, or a fear of the future.
We might not be aware of it in real time. We might be so focused on the sharpness of our current emotion – and justifying it – that we fail to see its true source rooted partly in stuff entirely different. It's not that anger always is unhealthy – not at all – but that anger that becomes hard and hostile often is about something else.
Much has changed in our world in just the last decade. Many wrongs have gone unrighted. It's scary, and to boot there are forces that feed off fears and manipulate them. I suspect that is why there's so much vitriol nowadays. I suspect that's why folks are more prone to lose it.
What can we do? When we lose it, we can be gentle with ourselves and each other, bringing compassion to both the object of ire and the people who act out. (Compassion isn't the same as validation.) We can summon the wisdom to know that what triggers people isn't just (or even primarily) what's happening now but deeper-seated things in personal and collective pasts that tend to hide in darkness, hidden even from ourselves.
In this very recognition, in acknowledging even the possibility, there can be spaciousness and a path toward inner integrity, healing and wholeness.
Rosh Hashanah is in 11 weeks. The long, slow turn begins.
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