TorahAnytimes Newsletter Be'halotcha

Rabbi Jeremy Golker
Power or Influence
In this week’s Parsha, we are told that the Jewish people began to complain. They had grown weary of the manna and demanded meat instead. In response, Moshe Rabbeinu despaired, and Hashem instructed him to appoint seventy elders to assist in bearing the burden of leadership. Moshe complied, and a Divine spirit rested upon the elders.
Interestingly, that same prophetic spirit also rested upon Eldad and Meidad, who had not been among the seventy chosen. Although Moshe had initially selected six representatives from each of the twelve Shevatim, Eldad and Meidad were excluded by lottery. Nevertheless, they too were swept up by inspiration and began to prophesy.
Yehoshua, seeing this, perceived a threat to Moshe’s authority. But Moshe responded with extraordinary humility and generosity. The Pasuk (Bamidbar 11:29) states: “Are you zealous on my behalf? Would that all of Hashem’s people were prophets!”
This gentle and gracious response stands in stark contrast to Moshe’s reaction to Korach’s rebellion, an incident we will encounter in two weeks. There, Moshe decisively and forcefully suppressed the uprising. Why the difference? Why was Moshe so magnanimous in one situation and so uncompromising in another?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks offers a brilliant insight. People often assume that power and influence are synonymous, if not identical. Those in power, they think, naturally wield influence, and those with influence must hold some form of power. But this is not the case.
If I share my power, I have less of it. But if I share my influence, I actually have more.
In his words: Power is a zero-sum game—the more you share, the less you retain. Influence, on the other hand, is a non-zero-sum game—the more you share, the more it expands.
Moshe Rabbeinu embodied two roles: he was both a Melech (king) and a Navi (prophet). Kingship is about power; prophecy is about influence. In the case of Eldad and Meidad, Moshe saw no threat. In fact, he welcomed their help in inspiring the nation. But Korach challenged Moshe’s role as king, as the ultimate authority.
The Gemara (Sanhedrin 8a) teaches: A generation can only have one leader, not two. That’s why Moshe responded to Korach’s challenge with such firmness and finality.
Teachers and parents often find themselves in positions of power, but they are always in positions of influence. Serving as role models, encouraging positive behavior, educating, and inspiring—these acts can create ripples that extend far beyond those directly in our care.
Moshe Rabbeinu understood the difference between power and influence, and more importantly, he lived it. And it is this which not only demonstrates leadership, but the kind of leadership that leaves an eternal legacy.
Rabbi Moshe Donnebaum
A Full Day of Lifting
Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l once related that when he was a young boy, he studied Chumash with his father, the Steipler Gaon zt”l. When they reached Parshas Beha’aloscha, where the Pesukim describe the inauguration of the Levi’im, one element of the process stands out: Aaron HaKohen was required to lift each and every Levite.
The Steipler posed the obvious question: how could Aaron possibly have lifted all 22,000 Levi’im? Where did he have the physical strength for such a feat?
The Steipler offered a fascinating explanation. A massive scale was constructed, and on one side of the scale, weights were placed. The Levi would step onto the opposite side, and Aharon would press down slightly on the weighted side, thereby causing the Levi to be elevated. In this way, Aharon was considered to have "lifted" each Levi.
Rav Chaim later recorded this explanation in his Sefer Taimah D’Kra, yet asked two questions.
The first is based on a Mishnah (Menachos 62b) which outlines the laws of Tenufah (the ritual lifting and waving of offerings). The Mishnah specifies that Tenufah requires movement in four directions: forward and backward (moleich u'meivi), and up and down (ma’aleh u’morid). Rav Chaim asked: even if the method of using a scale might fulfill the up-and-down component, how did it satisfy the requirement of forward and backward motion? Perhaps, he suggests, while the Levi stood on the scale, Aharon moved it gently back and forth—perhaps it was suspended by chains or ropes—but this remains speculative.
The second question comes from the Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 26:9) which list five areas in which the Kohen Gadol was considered greater than all others: wisdom, appearance, strength, wealth, and longevity. The Midrash proves Aharon’s physical strength from this very episode: he lifted 22,000 Levi’im in a single day. Clearly, the Midrash intends to demonstrate not clever engineering, but raw physical power. But if, as the Steipler suggests, the lifting was done with the aid of a scale, it may display wisdom or ingenuity, but it does not confirm Aharon’s superior strength. How then can the Midrash be reconciled with the Steipler’s explanation?
Rav Chaim concludes that these questions remain unresolved and require further investigation.
There is another Midrash, found in Parshas Korach, which sheds light on the nature of this act. When Korach complained about the process he underwent during the Levi’im’s initiation, he claimed: “They laid me down, held my hands and feet, and Aharon lifted me up and waved me—forward and back, up and down.” This description strongly implies that the Tenufah was a physically demanding process, not just symbolic or mechanical, supporting the explanation that Aharon truly did exert great physical strength.
In addition to these questions, other meforshim raise a practical question. How did Aharon complete the lifting of all 22,000 Levi’im within a single day? If the term yom (day) means 24 hours, then he would have had to lift one Levite every four seconds continuously, day and night. If it means only the daytime hours—approximately 12 hours—then the rate would have been one Levi every 1.96 seconds. Either way, the pace seems almost superhuman.
Rabbeinu Bachye offers two perspectives on this miracle. In one place, he emphasizes Aharon's extraordinary strength, indicating that he was indeed capable of such a feat. Elsewhere, however, he writes that it was done through nes, a miracle.
How can we understand such a miraculous accomplishment?
Rabbi Chaim Shmulevitz, in Sichos Mussar (Ma’amar 67), offers a foundational principle: when a person is charged with a Divine task, he is obligated to exert himself to the fullest. He must invest his energy, focus, and strength completely—b’chol kochosav, with all his might. Only once a person has done everything within his human capacity, then will the miracle come. Only at that point will Siyata Di’Shmaya (Divine assistance) arrive to help him complete the task.
Rav Chaim Shmulevitz explains that this is also the key to overcoming the yetzer hara. As Chazal teach: “Who is strong? He who conquers his desires” (Avos 4:1). And yet, Chazal also state, “If not for Hashem’s help, man could not overcome it” (Sukkah 52b). Meaning: first, a person must exert every effort, and then, Hashem supports him and enables him to succeed.
The same applies here. Aharon did all he could, and gave it his absolute best. He put in effort, strength, focus, and will. And once he did, the miracle occurred. Hashem assisted him. The task was completed not just through natural strength, but through a combination of extraordinary human effort and Divine support.
So yes, Aharon must have been immensely strong. But that alone wasn’t enough. The feat was completed with the synergy of human exertion and Divine intervention—koach and nes, physical power and spiritual assistance—united together.
Rabbi Paysach Krohn
A Windshield Mindset
Recently, I received a heartbreaking message that left me in shock. A dear friend of more than two decades reached out with sobering news. He wrote, “I know this will be hard for you to hear,” and then proceeded to share that he had been quietly battling a serious medical condition. Diagnosed back in 2011, the illness had remained dormant for 13 years, leading his doctors to adopt a wait-and-see approach. But in November 2024, things changed. The doctors informed him that he would now need to undergo six rounds of chemotherapy. He had already completed one, and was now preparing for the second.
Still, despite the gravity of the situation, his message carried a tone of calm and faith. He reassured me that he was not in terrible pain, and then he shared something remarkable.
“There’s a reason why the front windshield of a car is so much larger than the rearview mirror. Because we are meant to focus on what lies ahead, not on what is behind us.” The past may inform us, but it is the future that drives us forward. “Never dwell on what was,” he wrote. “Instead, ask yourself: What can I do now? How can I grow from this moment forward?”
That message struck a chord, because each of us, at some point, faces moments of challenge and pain. And the question is not what was, but what now? What does Hashem want from me now?
We find this perspective in the life of Rabbi Akiva. After the devastating loss of 24,000 of his students, he could have given up. He could have said, “Clearly, my Torah is not desired in Heaven,” and walked away. But instead, Rabbi Akiva looked ahead. As the Midrash (Bereshis Rabbah 63:3) teaches, he recognized that something had gone wrong—they had not properly inculcated the value of kavod chaveirim, respect among peers. So, he began again with five new students, and with them, rebuilt Torah for all generations.
Rabbi Akiva didn’t live in the rearview mirror. He lived with a wide, forward-looking perspective, a “windshield mindset.” He looked ahead to what could be created, to what could still flourish.
This ability to move forward comes from emunah and bitachon, faith and trust in Hashem. So how does a person develop the inner strength to keep going forward, to keep believing, even when the path is difficult?
Let me share something personal.
When I was 21 years old, my father became gravely ill with lung cancer. I was the eldest of seven children, learning in Torah Vodaas at the time. I knew that if my father didn’t recover, I’d need to leave yeshiva, become a mohel (something he had already trained me in), and support my mother and siblings.
My father was hospitalized near Washington Heights, where Rav Shimon Schwab zt”l served as the community Rav. My father, who had once been his student and held him in high regard, reached out and asked if his sons could spend Shabbos with Rav Schwab so we could visit him in the hospital afterward. Rav Schwab graciously agreed.
After davening on Shabbos, I visited my father and then returned to the Schwab home. Rav Schwab and his wife were waiting at the table. As I entered, he asked, “How is your father?”
I answered with a trembling voice, “I have bitachon that he will be well.” Rav Schwab turned serious. His next words shook me to my core. “Bitachon,” he said, “does not mean that your father will get better.”
I was stunned. I was a frightened 21-year-old, praying for a miracle. I could barely comprehend what he meant.
Rav Schwab explained, “Bitachon means believing that Hashem has a master plan—even if you can’t see it. Terrible things happen. People lose children. Spouses. These are tragic, painful realities. But bitachon means trusting that Hashem knows exactly what He is doing, and that in time, the purpose will become clear.”
That Shabbos, I learned a lesson that would shape my life.
Years later, I now attend a special Shabbaton each year for an organization called Samcheinu, which supports widows. There are close to 500 women who attend, divided by age group—each one bearing a unique pain. When I lead Kiddush on Friday night and look around the room, I see tears behind many eyes. And I ask myself: where did I gain the sensitivity to support them?
It came from those years at home with my mother after my father’s passing. I saw firsthand what it meant to be a widow. I remember my mother setting the table on Friday nights with a place for my father—his knife, fork, and spoon—even after he was gone. She couldn’t yet come to terms with the emptiness.
That experience opened my heart. Perhaps that, too, was part of the master plan. Perhaps I needed to live through it in order to give strength to others.
Rav Dovid Ashear, in his bestselling Living Emunah series, cites a striking idea. The Gemara (Shabbos 31a) teaches that when we arrive in the World to Come, we will be asked, "Tzipisa l’yeshuah—Did you anticipate the salvation?” Most interpret this as referring to yearning for Mashiach.
But the Sfas Emes offers another explanation. He says it means: during your own, personal, individual challenges, did you maintain hope? Did you believe that Hashem could bring you salvation, even when things looked bleak?
That is the essence of emunah and bitachon—to believe not only in the good times, but in the storm.
Yes, there are tragedies we cannot explain. After the horrific disaster in Meron, where forty-five precious souls perished, many sought meaning. Rav Meilech Biderman shlita shared a powerful insight on the Mishnah in Pirkei Avos (2:1): “Da mah l’maala mimcha—Know what is above you.” He noted that the word “mah” has the numerical value of 45—the number of lives lost. Sometimes, the things that are ma l’maala mimcha—above our understanding—are not meant to be grasped. We are meant to acknowledge that they are beyond us, that Hashem’s ways are not our ways. As Yeshayahu HaNavi writes, “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways” (Yeshayahu 55:9).
To believe in Hashem doesn’t mean expecting that everything will turn out well in the way we want. It means trusting that He knows what He’s doing—even when we don’t. That’s what we must strive for. Not blind optimism, but courageous faith. A faith that looks through the windshield, not the rearview mirror. A trust that sees purpose even in the pain.
Now, I want to share with you a Chazal which, if not recorded in the Gemara, would seem impossible to say. The Gemara (Bava Basra 16a) recounts a remarkable exchange involving Iyov, a man who endured unimaginable suffering. Iyov turns to Hashem and says, “Perhaps a tempest passed before You and confused You. Perhaps You mistook my name. My name is Iyov, not Oyev (enemy)!” In essence, Iyov dares to suggest: “Maybe You thought I was Your enemy, and that’s why I’m suffering. But You have the wrong person.”
Can you imagine the boldness? How could a human being speak this way to the Master of the Universe? The only reason we repeat these words is because the Gemara includes them for us to learn something profound.
And what does Hashem answer Iyov? Hashem replies: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Speak, if you have understanding” (Iyov 38:4). In other words, Hashem says: You arrived in the middle of the story. You don’t have the full picture. You’re trying to judge a master plan without having seen the beginning.
It’s like walking into a shiur twenty minutes late, and then challenging the maggid shiur (lecturer) with a question. But how can you ask a meaningful question when you missed the foundation of the discussion? Or imagine watching a film from the middle and being confused about the plot twists. You weren’t there at the start, so the story makes little sense.
Hashem is saying to Iyov, and to all of us: you weren’t there when the world was formed. You didn’t see the blueprint. So don’t assume you can understand the unfolding of the Divine plan with limited perspective.
Now allow me to share something beautiful and insightful from the Chofetz Chaim, something that borders on endearing in its simplicity.
We recite Ashrei three times a day, and in it we say: “Shomer Hashem es kol ohavav, v’es kol haresha’im yashmid—Hashem protects all who love Him, and all the wicked He will destroy.”
The Chofetz Chaim paints a vivid picture. Imagine someone who arrives late to shul. He walks in just in time to hear the chazzan say: "…And all the wicked He will destroy." He panics—“Hashem is destroying everyone?!” Why? Because he missed the beginning: “Hashem protects all who love Him.”
Or picture someone who leaves early. He hears only the first half: "Hashem protects all who love Him…" He leaves feeling comforted, not realizing the conclusion: “And all the wicked He will destroy.”
When you only hear part of the story, you may walk away with an entirely distorted understanding.
That’s how life works. We live for 70, 80, maybe 90 years—yet the story of creation spans thousands of years. We’re walking into the middle of a cosmic narrative, and we’re trying to make sense of it without having been there at the beginning. That’s what Hashem is telling Iyov: “You weren’t there when I began the world. You don’t see the entire arc.”
And so, we must carry humility when we question Divine justice. We’re seeing only a fragment of the full picture. Trusting in Hashem’s plan means recognizing that we don’t always get to understand—but that doesn’t mean there is no plan.
Because always, always, there is.


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