Parshas Chukas: The Fire That Doesn't Explode

It’s July 4th weekend. The grills are coming out. The sky’s about to light up. But what if the holiest fire this week isn’t in the sky at all?
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By tonight, the sky will erupt in celebration. Flags waving. Fireworks exploding. A nation celebrating freedom. But in this week’s parsha, fire comes from the ground, not the sky.

Bnei Yisrael complain. They’re tired, bitter, spiritually burned out. And Hashem sends fiery serpents, not to punish, but to expose what was already burning inside them.

Then comes the strangest medicine: a copper serpent lifted high by Moshe, not to fight, not to flee. Just to look at. To face the very thing that wounded you. And somehow, be healed.
Not through logic, but surrender. Emunah, not explanation.

Like the Parah Adumah at the start of the Parsha, it made no sense on paper- but worked in the soul. The fire outside wasn’t the only thing that had to calm. So did the panic inside. The mistrust. The grief. The need to control. All of it softened, not by answers, but by looking up. By trusting Hashem.

There were no speeches. No declarations of independence. Just loss. And mystery. And quiet.

Then Miriam dies, and the water dries up. The mother figure is gone, the one who, quite literally, made sure everyone had what to drink. The well stopped flowing when she did. Then Aharon, the father figure, the one who spent his life making peace between neighbors, between spouses, between the people and God, he goes too. Moshe remains, but even he is told his journey won’t continue. The shepherd is still walking, for now. But the family is unraveling.
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So before Shabbos begins, pour yourself a glass of water. 
Not just to remember Miriam- though that’s part of it. 
But to return to something gentle.
To cool the fire inside. To soften whatever’s been tightening in you all week.

Drink slowly. Let the stillness settle your breath.
Let it quiet the noise. The urge to control. You don’t need to know everything. Just look up, and watch.
Let it refresh your voice, so the words you use to welcome Shabbos come from a peaceful place, a place Aharon would be proud of.

Then, light. Whether it’s your hands striking the match or just your heart leaning toward the flame, making space for it.
Let it catch you.
Not to celebrate what we’ve won, but to honor what we’ve been through.
What we still carry. What keeps us showing up.

That’s the fire of Chukas. Not loud. Not proud. Just steady. 
The quiet fire of Shabbos. The hidden strength of Emunah.


Wishing you a sparkling Shabbos.
The kind of freedom that doesn’t need to explode. It just stays lit.

 —Berke Chein