If a trip to Israel is, by definition, a stroll down Biblical, rabbinic, and Jewish memory lane, this week’s Torah portion is a stroll down my own personal memory lane (and, I recently learned, for Rabbi Josh, as well). While a double portion this year (Hukkat-Balak), I was called to Torah lo those many years ago for Parashat Hukkat.
If I am being truthful, I remember much more about my yellow Sam and Libby flats than about my d’var Torah. I do remember that my almost-13-year-old self was hard-pressed to find anything “interesting” to talk about—a conversation I have now had countless times with 12-year-olds as they search for meaning in our ancient texts.
Imagine my surprise then, years later, when I encounter this same text once again, and again, and again. This text, in which Miriam and Aaron die. This text, in which, after Miriam’s death, the Israelites find themselves without water, prompting even our earliest scholars to draw a connection between this female leader and the presence of the most essential of life-giving substances. Looking back now, armed with the lessons I have learned from life and from Torah, it is almost funny to me how I struggled to draw a connection between this text and my life.
I recently had the honor of being interviewed by the Jewish Journal for their “Rabbis of L.A.” series, and while I did not talk about Miriam, or Hukkat, or the struggle to write my bat mitzvah d’var Torah, I think it sits with me whenever I encounter the text. Because, as with life, it takes time—and experience—to learn to hear our own voices, to know who we are in the world and in relationships. At age almost-13, I would not have been able to think about how, as a (young) woman, I encountered the text, but lo, these years later, I understand how fundamental that lens is to the way I see the world.
And that, of course, is the truth and the cliché of Torah. The Mishnaic sage Rabbi Ben Bag Bag (great name) reminds us to turn it and turn it, for everything is in it. We return to our texts time and again, and each time, the stories, lives, and experiences we bring allow us to see the text—and ourselves—anew.
—Rabbi Sari Laufer