Parshas Behaaloscha: Burnt Out, Fed Up, and Still Holy
It all begins with a flame.
Not just any flame, and not lit by just anyone.
The parsha opens with the Menorah, and the one appointed to light it: Aharon HaKohen.
He didn’t just light candles. He lit the kind of flame that has to rise on its own, something that awakens from within. Even in himself. Maybe especially in himself.
And then, Pesach Sheni.
A second chance. Not born out of rebellion, but out of longing. A group of Jews approach Moshe with a plea: “Why should we be left out?” And instead of being dismissed, a new opening is created. The Torah says: You missed the first? Here’s another door in.
Then the cloud lifts.
The nation finally leaves Har Sinai.
Outwardly ready. But inwardly?
Still human. Still fragile. Because something deeper was happening.
They had been slaves. Then suddenly — plagues, redemption, splitting seas, a mountain on fire, manna from the sky. Nonstop miracles.
But none of it was theirs yet.
A quiet truth surfaced:
They had never actually chosen this life. They never internalized it.
Yes, they said Na’aseh Ve’Nishma.
But even that, their most faithful moment, happened while clouded by holiness.
Thunder. Fire. Awe. They were swept up in something bigger than themselves.
But now the cloud lifted. And what was left?
A giant, overwhelming idea of Torah on their backs — with no spiritual muscles built to hold it.
Ouch.
So they cried. Not with clarity. Not with words for what hurt. They cried the way people cry when they’re spiritually starving.
The first thing the Jews do? They complain.
About what? The Torah doesn’t even say. Just “they were like complainers.”
And Hashem sends fire. Literal fire. Burns the edges of the camp. Gave it a nice sear.
And just like that, the real journey began.
Maybe that’s where the craving started. They had just seen G-d burning the edges of the camp and thought:
“You know what would go great with fire? Steak.”
It sounds ridiculous. But that’s what spiritual hunger can look like in disguise — a craving you can’t quite name.
On the physical side, we call it the Maillard reaction: That deep, seared flavor only fire can bring.
They didn’t want floaty miracles. They wanted something real.
Fermented. With texture. With crust.
And Hashem said:
You want meat? I’ll give you meat — till it’s coming out of your nose.
They weren’t wrong for craving something more grounded. They just didn’t know how to name the hunger. They didn’t want to be spoon-fed holiness.
They wanted to feel the kneading. The rising. The crust forming under fire.
That’s where the Hayom Yom for today, 17 Sivan, becomes a spotlight:
“Refraining from deriving pleasure, in the fullest sense, from this world, is only a fine preparation for Avoda.
Avoda itself is transforming the physical into a vehicle for G‑dliness.”
They weren’t asking for less holiness. They were asking for holiness that had weight.
That you could hold. Tear. Taste. Share.
But they didn’t yet know that.
Which is where yesterday’s Hayom Yom, 16 Sivan, comes in, like a flashlight:
“The healing of the soul is like the healing of the body...
Most urgent of all is knowing that you are ill, and believing you can be healed.”
They didn’t know they were sick. They didn’t realize their hunger was spiritual.
So they pointed at the food.
And then Moshe breaks.
“I can’t carry this alone,” he says. “Did I give birth to them? Why am I responsible for every complaint?”.
It was too much.
And that, maybe, was the most honest moment in the parsha. Moshe, the one who split seas and climbed mountains, admits: I’m not perfect. I’m human. I need help.
And Hashem responds:
You don’t have to carry this alone. Let’s bring in some helpers. Let’s make space for other voices, other strengths.
Seventy elders.
One root, seventy branches. What would one day become Shivim Panim laTorah.
Seventy faces, seventy perspectives, one truth.
Because Torah wasn’t meant to be shouted from one mountaintop forever. It needed echoes.
It needed mouths.
And from that moment, when Moshe said, “I can’t do this alone,”
and Hashem gave him help, seventy new voices to carry the weight.
Something shifted.
Space was made.
Not just for leadership to grow, but for truth to surface.
Even uncomfortable truth.
Miriam and Aharon spoke out.
They crossed a line. And Miriam was struck with tzara’at.
But this time, the people didn’t move on. They didn’t say, “She brought this on herself.”
They waited.
The entire nation, tense, mid-journey, stayed where they were. Not because she was perfect.
But because she was precious.
It wasn’t about having answers.
It was about making space for healing.
For being worth waiting for.
And knowing someone still would.
And that’s exactly what the Lubavitcher Rebbe is reminding us,
A few thousand years later, in the Hayom Yom for tomorrow, 18 Sivan:
“This is the time of the footsteps of Mashiach.
Every Jew must seek the good of another, old or young.
So no one will fall out, G-d forbid, from the community of Israel.
Who will soon, with Hashem’s help, experience complete redemption.”
The parsha opens with fire from G-d. Today’s news shows Israel answering with fire of its own, not to destroy, but to defend. May Hashem send Moshiach speedily, with no one left behind.
Because Geulah isn’t a solo journey.
It’s not just a headline or a hope. It’s the quiet courage to admit you’re not okay, and to hold space when someone else finally says it too.
You’re not alone. If you ever need someone to hold space beside you, I’m here.
Good Shabbos ❤️
Berke Chein
Download printable version (PDF)
