Parshat Hukat: Grief, Leadership, and Knowing When to Lay Down the Staff

Like modern-day Israelis, the ancient Israelites were constantly on the move. For twelve days, we rushed from safety to shelter and back again, jolted from ordinary moments by sirens. Tragically, many civilians were killed. People’s homes were destroyed. A missile from Iran wiped out an entire hospital building at Soroka and a research facility at the Weizmann Institute.

Last week’s Torah portion described Korach’s rebellion and the specter of civil war. In a disturbing parallel, this week we are witnessing a modern-day intifada—from within. Extremist Jewish settlers are attacking soldiers and police, and they are not being treated as enemy terrorists would be. The authorities are not responding as decisively as Moses and God did in the wilderness to rebels from within. These Jewish terrorists are being treated with leniency by a right-wing government that sees them as kin.

What makes this week’s Torah portion, Hukat, even more unsettling is its opening: the ritual of the Red Heifer. Some may recall the TV series Dig, in which Jewish and Christian fundamentalists transport a red heifer to the Temple Mount—symbolizing an apocalyptic ambition shared by some in our time. Minister Ben Gvir’s repeated visits to the Mount feel like a lit match near dry tinder.

In Parshat Hukat, the Israelites journey through the wilderness of Zin, encamp at Kadesh, skirt Edom via the Sea of Reeds, and traverse the land east of the Jordan. No hotels, no rest stops—just a relentless trek across an unforgiving landscape.

And then, almost quietly:

“The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin… and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there” (Numbers 20:1).

No mourning, no tribute. The woman who saved Moses as a baby and led the women in song after the Sea crossing disappears with barely a word.

But silence can speak volumes. The sages could not accept this erasure. The Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 1:2) and Talmud (Ta’anit 9a) imagine a miraculous well that followed the Israelites thanks to Miriam—and dried up at her death. She may have held no title, but she nourished the people in body and spirit. Second Temple authors such as Josephus gave Miriam a proper and detailed funeral (See here).

Without her, the people thirsted—and chaos followed. God instructed Moses to speak to a rock to bring forth water. Instead, in grief and frustration, he strikes it—twice—and shouts:

“Listen, you rebels (ha-morim), shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20:10)

A moment of rage. And a consequence: Moses is barred from entering the Promised Land.

Then comes another blow. God commands Moses to bring Aaron up Mount Hor, strip him of his priestly robes, and witness his death. The people mourn Aaron for thirty days—unlike the silence that greeted Miriam’s passing. Moses is now utterly alone.

We’re reminded of an earlier lament, when Moses broke under the weight of leadership:

“Did I conceive all this people… that You should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom like a nurse’? … If this is how You treat me, kill me now” (Numbers 11:12–15).

We see Moses’ deep despair, his feminized metaphors of bearing and nursing the people. We can sympathize with his envy of the dead and his longing for release.

The portion continues with complaints, battles, and divine victories. But the cost to Moses is starkly personal. And let’s not forget the serpents unleashed on the people. Talk about adding insult to injury. Imagine him reflecting, perhaps in retirement!

Where do I begin?

Maybe back in Egypt, when I struck the Egyptian taskmaster. I didn’t mean to kill him—it just happened. And I had to flee.

Then came the wilderness years—first as a shepherd, then as a leader. God found me out there. Argued me into taking the job. I didn’t want it. I had a temper. I stuttered. But God promised help: Aaron would speak, Miriam would guide. We were a team.

Now they’re gone.

It was never easy. The people never trusted me. They whined—about food, water, everything. They missed Egypt! “We had cucumbers and melons!” Really? Melons? As if Pharaoh served fruit platters in the slave camps.

Still, I stayed. I summoned manna, hit rocks, calmed rebellions. But after Miriam died, I cracked. God told me to speak to a rock. I yelled and hit it instead. Twice. Not the rock’s fault—but it was the only thing I could safely hit.

And for that, I was told I wouldn’t enter the land.

Then Aaron died. And I was alone.

Truth? I was tired. I had given all I had. More than I had. Forty years is a long time to carry a people. Even God knew it was time for someone else. Joshua was ready. I wasn’t jealous—I was relieved.

Some leaders stay too long. They forget they’re human. Forget the people aren’t theirs to own, but God’s to guide. They think they’re irreplaceable.

I wasn’t. Neither are they.

Retirement has its perks. I sleep in. Tell stories. Write memoirs. Offer advice no one asked for—that’s my right as an elder. I’m working on a new book: it will be called Devarim, or Deuteronomy. It will disappear until King Josiah’s time, but will then be added to the four books of the Torah.

If I have one message, it’s this:

Leadership is service, not possession. Even God delegated—to judges, elders, prophets. So must we.

Make room. Step aside. The wilderness teaches many things—but most of all:

No one walks forever.

And perhaps most importantly: we must learn when it is time to lay down the staff.