Where is the Divine breath?

As we enter Shabbat Shabbat Naso/נשא, the Jewish liturgical cycle brings us to a particularly dense and multifaceted Torah portion, the longest portion in the Book of Bemidbar/במדבר (Numbers), covering chapters 4:21–7:89. It addresses the laws governing service in the Tent of Meeting, as well as the status of the Nazir/נזיר—the Nazarite, one who separates from society, abstains from wine, and carries the crown of God on his head, enjoying a spirit of absolute freedom.

This path has long been a profound choice in Judaism, though often misunderstood or dismissed through the lens of Christian monasticism—as lifeless or ascetic. But consider Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai: a Nazarite—so what? Long hair flowing to his thighs, eyes burning with inner fire… Is he a mystic, or a spiritual drifter trekking toward a remote mountain—Bhutan, perhaps, or a Thai island like Phuket, still popular, though waning? Eastern Orthodox monks share this look, whereas Western traditions prefer the humbly “clean-cut” shaven skulls. Like ancient Jewish Nazirites, Christian monks strive to master their desires—and in doing so, find freedom… even from obsessing over their own hair.

We often ask the same persistent question: whom did God choose? To whom did He give—or rather, entrust—the Torah and the Oral Law? Today, the competition is frantic, even unhinged. Shavuot/שבועות, along with the Western Christian version of Pentecost, turns into a sort of spiritual frenzy (British naval slang might call it “bonkers”—slightly drunk, with a flicker of ecstatic or erotic energy).

Something similar unfolds in Jerusalem during Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, though it’s generally more restrained. On Shavuot, charismatic Christian and Messianic groups—dancing, chanting Hebrew psalms, speaking in tongues—transform the streets. They come not from within, but from abroad, drawn by the Land of Promise. Dressed in flowing robes, from white to orange and rainbow hues, wearing natural makeup, blowing shofars, strumming harps and lyres, clashing cymbals—”Hallelujah! Blessed be the Lord! Baruch HaShem yom-yom/ברוך ה’ יום יום – every day.”

Israel needs support—perhaps desperately—and welcomes contact with joy. Yet, we must face an ethical question. The spiritual and moral identity of the Jewish people is being tested this June 2025. Loneliness lies at the very heart of Jewishness, and it cuts deep. Can we ever escape Cain’s crime or Abel’s death—over vegetables and meat? There seems to be no parve/פרווה (neutral) solution.

Can we play the fool with God Himself? Sometimes the spectacle is gloriously joyful. But the same people who dance wildly today won’t miss their flights tomorrow—moving from one ecstatic airport rave to the next. Along the way, they pass Orthodox Jews (who might receive a spit or two), and Eastern Orthodox Christians from Russia (long-bearded men, veiled women, whispering “Slava Tebe, Gospodi/Слава Тебе Господи”—the exact equivalent of our Baruch HaShem).

This year, large Brazilian groups are absent—it’s winter there, and they’d usually prefer the heat of the Holy Land. But times feel dangerous. Even “The Big Hug” movement, reportedly led by Dutch-speakers from Belgium, has faded. It wasn’t directly tied to Shavuot or Pentecost. They met online, hoped to meet in Jerusalem, but the same dilemmas persist: what do we do with our mouths? Do we speak? Do we listen? Or just repeat the same old truths with varying conviction? In Israel, we love to hug. Shoulders meet shoulders; cheeks kiss sun-warmed cheeks, joyfully.

People need warmth. Jews need warmth. All the mishpachot goyim/משפחות גויים—the nations—need warmth. There’s something of the sharavi/שרבי wind blowing these days, a wild, desert gust. Is it only a metaphor? Or does it rise from leadership breakdowns, killings, bulldozers, tanks? The word dash/ד”ש – דרישת שלום in Hebrew means a warm greeting, a hug of presence. It can make one feel “chosen,” if only for a moment.

“Hug” comes from Old Norse hugur—soul, mood, thought; hugsa—to think, to mind, to remember. In German, hegen—to cherish, to enclose. I recently met a group of sociologists who explored this in Dutch and Afrikaans, connecting verheugen (joy, memory, intimacy) with the Hebrew dash—a sweet word, once used for trampling or stumbling (dashdesh/dashesh/דשדש-דשש)—“to stamp upon,” or even “drunkard,” as in Targum Isaiah 19:14.

In Jewish tradition, Shavuot marks the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai—a moment of cosmic intimacy, revelation, and trembling silence. Some stay up all night to study, immersed in the sea of words that still flows from that mountain. The Jews read Megillat Ruth, a story of loyalty, belonging, and unexpected grace—echoing the openness of Sinai. It was prolonged with the descendants of Ruth the Moabite who is the ancestor of Jesus of Nazareth. The cosmic revelation was expanded to the voice heard in its own tongue by the times of the Pouring of the Holy Spirit in Zion and Jerusalem upon the fiftieth day after the resurrection of Jesus born in Bethlehem, who left his disciples at the Mount of Olives on the day of his ascension.

When the Spirit fell on Jerusalem at Pentecost, witnesses thought the apostles were drunk (Acts 2:13). But they were not seeking pleasure or excess. They had a question—nothing sexual, nothing profane. Just human longing. We are said to be 37.2°C in the morning—a natural body temperature—and capable of sharing warmth. It’s even become a form of psychological therapy in this land.

During the Eastern Orthodox Divine Liturgy, the priest adds hot water to the wine (symbol of Christ’s blood), to signify that Jesus, risen from the dead, is truly alive—with human warmth. Beyond symbolism, it testifies to the living reality of God.

Yet this week’s Torah portion is not limited to these themes. It includes the famous Birkat Kohanim/ברכת כהנים—the Priestly Blessing (Numbers 6:22–27). Recited daily, in the most unexpected corners of the world, it remains the final priestly and sacrificial act inherited from the Temple Service. Today, many Jews choose—freely—to ascend the Temple Mount. The kohanim, wrapped in prayer shawls, raise their hands, fingers parted to allow the Shekhinah to shine through. Are they chosen? Yes—but not for themselves.

Spirituality often wavers between modest humility and arrogant display.

Luther rendered Numbers 7:89 with rare fidelity to the Masoretic text: “Moses… would hear the Voice spoken him—meddaber elav/מדבר אליו, redend zu sich—from above the kaporet (cover) of the Tent.” It’s a grammatical mystery. Rav Yeshayahu Leibowitz, following Maimonides and Rashi, suggested that meddaber/מדבר is reflexive—shortened from mitdaber/מתדבר. That is, God speaks to Himself when He meets Moses. A profound and endless quiz.

All begins with Him and returns to Him (cf. John 13:3). As Mishlei/משלי (Proverbs 16:4) declares: “God made everything for Himself.” From Moses to us and beyond us, God speaks with Himself—and shares with us only what we can grasp, endure, deny, or rediscover.

This Saturday–Sunday, the Eastern Orthodox, Oriental, and Catholic Churches celebrate Pentecost, the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. One key decision of the Second Vatican Council (1965) was to reintegrate prayers to the Holy Spirit, inspired in part by dialogue with the Eastern Churches. Still, some Churches only pretend to commemorate the Council’s vision, acting as if the Latin Church alone bears the flame, as if the rest must follow.

The Deir Rum, the Roman Orthodox Church of Jerusalem, recently honored Saints Constantine and Helena, equal to the Apostles, who shaped Christianity—from the discovery of the True Cross to its imperial recognition. But good intentions are not enough. In times of hardship, they may backfire. The Spirit unites—it does not divide along the lines of our wandering desires.

The Oriental Churches have always been Spirit-oriented. As it is written: “Ruach Elo.him merachefet/רוח אלהים מרחפת”—the Spirit of God was hovering like an eagle over the waters (Genesis 1:2). Pentecost (Greek for 50) matches the Arabic Hamsin/هامسين and the Hebrew sharav/שרב, the hot southern wind. Abroad, some Jews still find this confusing. In Russia, the feast is known as Presvyataya Troytsa/Пресвятая Троица—Most Holy Trinity—highlighting the complexity of the Christian concept of divine unity.

The Monday following is dedicated to the Holy Spirit.

In both Judaism and Christianity, Shavuot and Pentecost reflect the same truth: that we are refreshed and awakened by God’s gifts—by the Breath, the neshama, the soul that warms and comforts. Perhaps this leads us to embrace—to hug—like sharing fresh pastries.

So, look around and ask yourself: Can we tame one another?

Perhaps this is where holiness begins—not in fire or thunder, but in learning how to remain tender in the face of difference.

And this, maybe, is the breath of God, which is to say—can we respect each other, and the immeasurable worth of simply being alive?

Who will answer?
From where—and toward what?