Parshas Nasso: The Starter Knows Things
Some things don’t look sacred. But they are.
What if the chipped coffee cup on your shelf — the one you keep using even though you have newer ones, isn’t just a sentimental favorite…
but a vessel that holds the memory of every tired first sip?
What if the worn-out Tehillim, its cover coming loose,
isn’t falling apart, just making space for more of your prayers inside?
A fragment of order in a world that breaks easily.
What if a sourdough starter isn’t just something you feed,
but something that quietly reflects you?
What if it helps you remember the things you usually forget,
like rest, timing, or trust?
What if it ferments based on your mood as much as your flour?
Not because it’s magical, just patient. Attuned. In rhythm with you.
What if everything around you- the cup, the book, the dough on the counter, is trying to teach you something G‑d never stopped saying?
This week, we read Parshas Nasso, the longest parsha in the entire Torah.
It’s packed with laws and rituals: from the ordeal of the Sotah (a suspected betrayal in a marriage), to the Nazir (someone who chooses voluntary holiness), to the Priestly Blessings that still echo through generations.
And then comes the part everyone skims through:
Twelve tribal leaders bring the exact same offering.
Same silver. Same weight. Same flour. Same animals.
Twelve times. Word for word.
Why would the Torah, where every letter is sacred, take the time to repeat twelve identical offerings in full?
There’s a story in the Gemara (Menachot 29b):
When Moshe ascended to heaven to receive the Torah, he saw Hashem placing tiny crowns “tagin” on certain letters.
He asked, “Why are You doing this?”
And Hashem answered, “In the future, a man named Akiva ben Yosef will derive mountains of halacha from these crowns.”
Moshe asked to see him.
So Hashem placed Moshe in the back of Rabbi Akiva’s classroom.
And Moshe sat there, this man who had just received the Torah from Hashem Himself, feeling lost. He didn’t understand the Torah being taught. It felt distant. Foreign. Beyond him.
Until a student asked, “Rebbi, how do you know this?”
And Rabbi Akiva answered, הלכה למשה מסיני - “It is a halacha given to Moshe at Sinai.”
And Moshe smiled.
Not because he suddenly understood everything, but because he saw the transmission. He saw that Torah wouldn’t just live through the thunder of Har Sinai, but through the details. The repetition. The crowns. The kavana.
Kind of like a sourdough starter.
It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush to rise.
But it rises all the same. In rhythm with time, warmth, and faithfulness.
If Rabbi Akiva could find mountains of meaning in the tiniest flourish, then surely there’s meaning in spelling out these twelve identical offerings.
—
Because even if the offerings were identical, the souls bringing them weren’t.
Each Nasi brought his own kavana, his own journey, his own unrepeatable presence into the Mishkan.
One brought it with the trembling pride of a first-time leader.
One brought it while still healing from past failure.
One carried the weight of a tribe’s struggle.
One came quietly. One came boldly. One came unsure.
Each one brought his full heart. His own place in his tribe.
And Hashem wanted space for every single one of them.
Not as a footnote. Not as a summary.
Word for word.
Because when a soul offers itself fully,
even if it looks like what someone else did yesterday,
or what you did yesterday,
it’s not a copy.
It’s a new moment in creation.
A new flavor in the dough.
A new note in the song of this world.
And that might be exactly why this parsha,
the one filled with so much sameness,
was crowned the longest in the entire Torah.
Because this section, with twelve identical offerings,
takes up more verses than the story of the world’s creation.
Perhaps that’s the whole point.
Hashem is showing us what matters most:
Not just light and sky and land…
but the hearts that choose to show up.
The souls that offer.
The holiness of repetition, intention, and individuality.
That no two people are ever truly the same.
That honoring the uniqueness of each soul is worth every single verse.
Even if the silver bowls all seem the same.
Parshas Nasso blesses us:
Your story is not a copy of anyone else’s.
Even if it shares ingredients.
Even if it repeats.
To you,
Not the you you’re trying to become.
Not the you you used to be.
The you who showed up again today.
And maybe that’s all He asks in return.
That you keep showing up. That you whisper back:
Hineni.
Here I am.
B’shalom.
In peace.
-Have a peaceful Shabbos
Berke Chein
Kind of like a sourdough starter.
It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush to rise.
But it rises all the same. In rhythm with time, warmth, and faithfulness.
If Rabbi Akiva could find mountains of meaning in the tiniest flourish, then surely there’s meaning in spelling out these twelve identical offerings.
—
Because even if the offerings were identical, the souls bringing them weren’t.
Each Nasi brought his own kavana, his own journey, his own unrepeatable presence into the Mishkan.
One brought it with the trembling pride of a first-time leader.
One brought it while still healing from past failure.
One carried the weight of a tribe’s struggle.
One came quietly. One came boldly. One came unsure.
Each one brought his full heart. His own place in his tribe.
And Hashem wanted space for every single one of them.
Not as a footnote. Not as a summary.
Word for word.
Because when a soul offers itself fully,
even if it looks like what someone else did yesterday,
or what you did yesterday,
it’s not a copy.
It’s a new moment in creation.
A new flavor in the dough.
A new note in the song of this world.
And that might be exactly why this parsha,
the one filled with so much sameness,
was crowned the longest in the entire Torah.
Because this section, with twelve identical offerings,
takes up more verses than the story of the world’s creation.
Perhaps that’s the whole point.
Hashem is showing us what matters most:
Not just light and sky and land…
but the hearts that choose to show up.
The souls that offer.
The holiness of repetition, intention, and individuality.
That no two people are ever truly the same.
That honoring the uniqueness of each soul is worth every single verse.
Even if the silver bowls all seem the same.
Parshas Nasso blesses us:
Your story is not a copy of anyone else’s.
Even if it shares ingredients.
Even if it repeats.
יִשָּׂא ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ
May Hashem lift His face to you…
To you,
Not the you you’re trying to become.
Not the you you used to be.
The you who showed up again today.
וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם
…and place upon you peace.
And maybe that’s all He asks in return.
That you keep showing up. That you whisper back:
Hineni.
Here I am.
B’shalom.
In peace.
-Have a peaceful Shabbos
Berke Chein