Pinchas: Seeing Beyond Ourselves

By: Rabbi Moshe Taragin

Hashem had told Moshe that he would not lead the people into the Land of Israel. Yet perhaps he still had hope that Hashem would rescind His decree. After all, Moshe had successfully overturned previous heavenly decrees. Perhaps, with enough prayer, even this decree could be rescinded.

Moshe conducts a final census, counting the people whom he had guided so carefully and lovingly through the harsh desert for forty years. Despite the divine decree, he continues to lead the nation. Despite the loss of his brother and sister, he remains at the helm.

The Torah then turns to the laws of inheritance. This may be the final sign that Moshe’s fate has been sealed. As the Torah outlines how children inherit the legacy of their ancestors, Moshe realizes that he too must prepare his pass his legacy to the next generation.

In a heroic moment of selflessness, Moshe’s first thoughts turn to the question of who will lead the people after him. He does not dwell on his own disappointment or plead once more for his own future. Instead, he asks Hashem to appoint a worthy successor. To ensure a smooth transition and avoid any crisis of leadership, Moshe wants that successor appointed during his own lifetime.

In asking Hashem to appoint a successor, Moshe uses an intriguing description of Hashem. He addresses Him as Elokai Haruchot, the God who knows every spirit. In doing so, he hints at what he considers the primary qualification for the leader who will guide the people into the Land of Israel.

Moshe seeks someone who understands the differences in the human spirit and the diversity of human experience. He wants a leader who appreciates those differences and cultivates them rather than trying to homogenize people and their lives. He realizes that Hashem alone fully understands the uniqueness of every human being. Hashem created us with different temperaments, different strengths and weaknesses, different perspectives, and different missions.

No human being can see people as Hashem does. Yet Moshe sought someone who could come as close as possible.

Moshe knew that our deepest convictions often narrow our perspective. Our passions convince us that our way is the only way. We become emotionally attached to our own viewpoints and find it difficult to step outside ourselves and see the world through someone else’s eyes. Over time, we become so committed to our own ideas that we struggle to recognize the truth beyond them.

Moshe was different. In part, this grew from his prophetic vision, which lifted him beyond the narrowness of ordinary human perspective. In part, it stemmed from his unique life experience. He was raised in an Egyptian palace, married a Midianite woman, and spent decades away from Egypt before returning to liberate us. Above all, Moshe loved the Jewish people so deeply that he could look beyond their flaws and appreciate the richness of different personalities and different paths in serving Hashem.

Moshe realized that his successor would need to embody these same qualities, especially as we prepared to settle in the Land of Israel and live as separate tribes. In the desert, tribal identity had been less pronounced. Although each tribe camped in its own section, everyone shared the same desert and the same experience. Life in Israel would be different. As the people spread across the land, regional and cultural differences would become more pronounced. Their leader needed to appreciate those differences rather than force conformity.

Moshe did not seek an influencer. He was not looking for a larger-than-life personality or a charismatic leader who could overwhelm people and persuade them to follow a single path. Nor was he searching for the sharpest intellect. He wanted someone who respected other people and appreciated the complexity of human experience.

I encountered this same outlook in my rebbe, Rav Aharon Lichtenstein.

In 1978, Shimon Peres, chairman of the Israeli Labor Party, visited my yeshiva. He asked my rebbe, Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, what the political credo of our yeshiva was. I was proud of Rav Lichtenstein’s response. Politics had never been part of the educational agenda of our yeshiva. Our goal was to shape human souls and deepen religious commitment. Political convictions were left to each individual student.

Rav Lichtenstein replied that he hoped to instill three values in his students: a sense of responsibility for the broader community even while immersed in Torah study, the discipline to think deeply rather than simplistically about public issues, and the ability to respect those who held different views even when convinced that your own position is correct.

He taught us to respect differing opinions without surrendering our own convictions.

We are living through a period of deep division. We have formed staunch ideological camps and have become passionately committed to our own way of life. In Israel, we are enduring a painful period of social discord that at times has erupted into near violence. Have we lost the ability to understand those who see the world differently and appreciate their values even when we disagree with them? Have we become too narrow in our outlook? Do we possess enough humility and enough breadth of vision to see beyond our own assumptions?

Where we live also shapes how we see each other. For good reason, Orthodox Jews tend to cluster in homogeneous communities. This is a healthy and effective way to cultivate shared values that are reinforced by communal norms and expectations. I live in a fully Orthodox yishuv where Shabbat is built into the fabric of the community because the gates are closed.

Yet by closing those gates, I also limit my exposure to other types of Jews whose experiences I need to better understand. This demographic isolation has become characteristic of many Orthodox communities, both in Israel and abroad. While it strengthens communal identity, it also makes it more difficult to appreciate the depth and complexity of Jewish lives beyond our own circles.

In Israel, one important point of common ground is the army, where people from different segments of Israeli society serve together and learn to better understand one another despite their differences. By its very nature, military service is a leveling experience. Social distinctions fade and people earn one another’s respect through shared experience. That shared experience allows people from different walks of life to develop genuine respect for each other.

Because most Charedim do not currently serve in the army, this interaction is largely absent. It becomes more difficult for each side to understand the experiences and assumptions of the other. As tensions continue to mount, it becomes increasingly apparent that the different sides in this debate are operating from different narratives, and neither fully understands how the other sees the issue.

A society cannot remain united if its different communities rarely encounter each other.

This is why Moshe addressed Hashem as Elokai Haruchot. He knew that no leader could understand every person as Hashem does. But he hoped for a leader who would strive to see beyond his own perspective.

The first step toward healing our divisions is to broaden our own perspective rather than trying to change someone else’s. That is a better path to leadership than simply speaking louder than everyone else. 

Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi and educator at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush) in Israel. His latest book, “Reclaiming Redemption, Vol. II: Faith, Identity, Peoplehood, and the Storms of War,” is available at mtaraginbooks.com.