Beha’alotecha
Numbers 8:1–12:16 

By Jen Smith 

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, begins with a quiet, almost tender image: Aaron is commanded to light the lamps of the Menorah in the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary in the wilderness. Beha’alotecha means to raise up, which is fitting because when you raise up the lamps, not just light them, but raise them up, the flame burns on its own. Our sages teach that this phrase reflects the deeper truth that spiritual leadership does not just inspire and ignite others – it helps them sustain their own divine flame. 

But this Torah portion is hardly about gentle illumination. It quickly turns turbulent. The Israelites grumble about their journey, cry out in hunger for meat, and lash out against Moses. Even Moses’ sister, Miriam, is caught up in a moment of gossip only to be stricken in return with tzara’at, a skin affliction. Beha’alotecha is a mirror of our world, also characterized by flashes of holiness within a storm of confusion and unrest. 

And so we find ourselves here, in our wilderness, waking up to news that Israel has attacked military targets deep within Iran in response to persistent threats from a regime that has long pledged harm to the Jewish state and its people. Regardless of one’s politics, the moment is heavy, and the question hangs in the air: What does it mean to be a light when the world is so dark? 

The Zohar (Judaism’s primary mystical text) teaches that the soul of a person is ner Hashem, a candle of God. Each of us is born with a divine spark. But that spark does not always burn brightly. Sometimes, it flickers under the heavy weight of war, fear, or uncertainty. Sometimes, our sense of holiness is dimmed by hatred and violence, even when it feels justified. And yet, Beha’alotecha insists we raise up the light. We raise up the light in the wilderness, and we raise it higher still when it is concealed by the shadows of evil. 

This is not just poetic metaphor. The Torah teaches us about the tikkun olam, the repair of the world, and reminds us that even in our response to existential threats, we are nevertheless tasked with choosing the actions that do not diminish the holiness of our own souls. Protecting ourselves and our community is sacred, but so is restraint. Our power as a people is not simply defined in terms of defense, but also in discernment; in knowing when to light the flame of peace, and when to shine a fiery torch in warning. 

Beha’alotecha also teaches about memory and direction. The Israelites are led by the Shechinah, God’s divine and cloud-like presence, which lifts and moves unpredictably, and still the Israelites must follow. But the mystics say that the cloud was not simply above them, but rather, it dwelled within them. This divine presence is also the voice that whispers: Do not forget who you are. Do not forget your purpose. 

So what is our purpose? That question echoes as war drums beat half a world away. We are here, I believe, to be the bearers of sacred contradiction. To be strong and compassionate. To defend life while pursuing peace. And even when we fight for peace, we are challenged to remember that our highest aspiration is kedusha (holiness), not conquest. 

At the end of this parsha, Moses cries out a prayer that has echoed across centuries: 

Ana Adonai, refa na la (Please, God, heal her now.) 

Moses says this not for himself, but for Miriam, who just wronged him. Can you imagine? In a moment of pain and betrayal, he chooses healing. And perhaps that is the greatest teaching of all: we must hold fire and forgiveness in the same breath. But this strength must always walk hand in hand with humility, so that even when Israel, out of necessity, strikes against darkness, we must continue pray not only for Israel’s victory, but for healing. For peace. And most importantly, for the day we no longer need to lift weapons at all. 

 Beha’alotecha reminds us that the light we are called to raise is not naïve. It’s not soft. It’s the stubborn, sacred light of our people who, generation after generation, continue to believe in redemption even when the road is dusty and blood-stained. May we all, in our own ways, be like Aaron. Loving and pursuing peace, raising up the flames, lighting lamps in the darkness, and standing tall in the glow of something greater. 

Shabbat Shalom.