By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D.
EL CAJON, California — The wilderness. Midbar. It’s not just geography. It’s an emotional and spiritual landscape—a space of uncertainty, exposure, and seeming disarray. Yet paradoxically, it’s also the birthplace of transformation. We read this parsha on the Shabbat before Shavuot, and we step into this transitional space—not as aimless wanderers, but as a people on a path. A path toward destiny. A path charted by purpose. A path guided by Torah.
For me, Bamidbar remains a most psychologically rich and enduring guide for engaging with the complexities of contemporary Jewish communal life. As the Netziv reflects in Haamek Davar, this book chronicles the painful, necessary evolution from a life of divine shelter in the wilderness to the raw uncertainties of building a society on human terms in Eretz Yisrael.
It’s a narrative of transition—from dependence to agency, from miracles to management. Within its verses unfold the full drama of collective life: the struggle for leadership and legitimacy, the fear and promise of scarcity and abundance, the frictions of war and fragile peacetimes. We see families fracture and regroup, tribes jostle for power, religious identities tested at the edges of inclusion and exclusion. Even gender is not static—it’s questioned, contested, redefined. Bamidbar doesn’t just tell stories; it maps the emotional terrain of a people learning to live with themselves and with one another, no longer under the shadow of constant divine intervention but under the weight of their own decisions.
Hashem instructs Moshe to take a census. Not merely to count the people—but to affirm that every individual counts. In a psychological sense, this is a deep lesson in identity and significance. When the world seems to erase our worth—through violence, hatred, or the painful rise in antisemitism—we return to this foundational truth: you matter. You belong. You are seen. You count.
Today, many feel we are again in a wilderness. Anxiety, fear, and sorrow swirl around us. Antisemitism rears its ancient head in modern guises. It feels disorienting—chaotic. But the Torah reminds us: it was precisely in the wilderness that we received Hashem’s guidance. Not in the polished courts of Egypt or the comfort of permanence—but in a place of vulnerability. There, remarkably, miraculously, our clarity emerged.
From a psychological lens, the wilderness is the place where ego recedes, and authentic self emerges. It is where illusions fall away, and raw truth is met face-to-face. This is why the Torah was given in the desert—because the desert humbles us. And humility, we learn, is the soil in which genuine wisdom grows.
Moses, the greatest leader, is described not as the smartest or most charismatic—but as the most humble. Why? Because humility opens us to receive—not just information, but deep emotional transformation. It’s no coincidence that Mount Sinai, the lowest of mountains, was chosen for the greatest of revelations. Hashem speaks through burning bushes and barren deserts, reminding us: the place of scarcity is often the place of sacredness.
In times like these, psychology teaches us the importance of meaning-making. Viktor Frankl, a survivor of the darkest wilderness of our times, taught that when we can find meaning in suffering, we transcend it. Remember that pain paves the path for personal possibility. The Torah is our ultimate source of meaning. It is our spiritual GPS—Gratitude, Perspective, Sensitivity. It recalibrates us when fear clouds the path. It lifts us when we feel overlooked or overwhelmed. But only when and if we truly open our eyes and our hearts to engage and embrace its lessons
And in Bamidbar, we also learn the power of community. The people are not just counted; they are encamped together. Each tribe in its place, each soul contributing to the whole. This isn’t just ancient census-taking—it’s a divine blueprint for psychological resilience: we heal together. We thrive together. Achdut, unity, is not just an ideal—it’s an emotional necessity, of our health and wellbeing. When even one letter of the Torah is missing, it is no longer whole. And we, each of us, are letters in that sacred scroll.
This is especially poignant now. Antisemitism seeks to isolate, to fragment. But Torah calls us to connection. To affirm every Jew’s worth, every human’s dignity. Even those not formally included in the count of Bamidbar mattered—and we, too, must remember that inclusion is not a luxury; it is a spiritual imperative. Yes, there are those in our community with whom we disagree. But we are one heart, one people…”one from the start.”
Reb Nosson and the Sfas Emes both teach that midbar shares a root with ledaber, to speak or lead. In the silence of the wilderness, the voice of Hashem is clearest. It is there we learn to follow. There we find our voice, our mission. There we prepare ourselves to receive Torah again—not as a history lesson, but as a living covenant renewed daily through action, love, and shared destiny.
On Shavuot, we stand again at Sinai. Not as passive recipients, but as active participants in a collective revelation. We declare, even in our shaken world, na’aseh v’nishma—we will do, and we will hear. We commit not just to observe Torah, but to embody it—with courage, compassion, and commitment to justice.
So let us take heart in this: Though we are walking through a wilderness, we are not alone. We are a proud, courageous, unapologetic people of resilience, faith, and eternal promise. We have walked through exiles and expulsions, pogroms and persecutions—and yet, we have always emerged stronger, kinder, and more spiritually alive.
May this Shavuot renew our strength. May it remind us that in a world seeking to divide us, we are united even amidst our differences. In a culture of noise, we are grounded in purpose. In a time of darkness, we carry light—not just for ourselves, but for the world.
And may we each be counted—not just in number, but in the glory of our contribution to the unfolding of our people’s sacred story.
*
Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.