By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D. in El Cajon, California
Parsha Beha’alotecha opens with Aaron being instructed not merely to light the menorah, but to raise the flames until they burn steadily on their own. The Torah’s language is precise: beha’alotecha, “when you raise up the lights.”
The Sifrei explains that the flame had to rise independently, teaching that genuine spiritual growth cannot be forced externally; it must awaken from within. The role of a leader, parent, teacher, or friend is not to control another person’s flame, but to help kindle it until it can sustain itself.
Perhaps that is why the parsha moves so quickly from light to emotional unrest. Soon after, the Torah says: “The people were like complainers in the ears of Hashem” (Bamidbar11:1). They were not simply complainers, but like complainers. The Ramban explains that the people were searching for grievances, emotionally restless despite the blessings surrounding them. Their complaints reflected something deeper: inner discontent and loss of direction.
The people begin romanticizing Egypt: “We remember the fish that we ate in Egypt for free…” (11:5). The irony is striking. Egypt was a place of slavery and suffering, yet memory distorted reality. Under stress, people often idealize the past because familiarity can feel safer than uncertainty.
This is one of the most common patterns of human nature: we sometimes prefer familiar pain over unfamiliar growth.
The Israelites had witnessed miracles, crossed the sea, and stood at Sinai. Yet when the journey became difficult, they emotionally retreated. A person can leave a destructive environment yet remain emotionally trapped inside it. Someone may break unhealthy habits while still speaking to themselves with shame and self-criticism. The body may leave Egypt long before the mind does.
The Netziv explains that the people’s complaints were not truly about food or travel, but about the burden of spiritual responsibility. Freedom is exhilarating, but it is also demanding. Slavery removes responsibility; freedom requires maturity. The wilderness generation discovered that becoming a covenantal people meant living with uncertainty, discipline, and growth.
This emotional regression still appears in everyday life. A husband and wife may argue over dishes while the deeper pain is feeling unseen. A parent may overreact to a child while carrying hidden exhaustion. A person may constantly criticize work or community while struggling internally with gratitude or meaning. Egypt had been painful, but it had also been predictable.
We see this again when Miriam and Aaron criticize Moses: “Has Hashem spoken only through Moses?” (12:2). Beneath the criticism may have been hurt or frustration. The Torah then describes Moses as “exceedingly humble” (12:3). His humility was not weakness. It was emotional spaciousness. Because Moses did not require constant validation, he could hear criticism without collapsing into defensiveness.
Perhaps that is one of the Torah’s deepest definitions of humility: not thinking less of yourself but being less consumed with yourself.
Yet even Moses reaches a breaking point: “I cannot carry this people alone” (11:14). The Torah does not hide the vulnerability of its greatest leader. Hashem responds by instructing Moses to gather 70 elders and share the burden.
The Sforno explains that leadership was intentionally distributed because no human being is meant to carry overwhelming responsibility alone. Emotional resilience is not built through isolation. People heal through connection, support, and shared responsibility. And this brings us back to the menorah.
Why begin the parsha with light? Because the Torah understands something essential about the human condition: we need reminders of inner light precisely when life feels darkest. The Midrash compares the human soul to a candle: “The soul of man is the lamp of Hashem” (Mishlei20:27). The menorah therefore symbolizes the spiritual task of every Jew: to bring light into confusion, steadiness into fear, and hope into despair.
Rashi explains that Aaron held the flame to the wick “until the flame rose on its own.” Growth rarely happens instantly. Healing unfolds slowly through patience, consistency, and support. A person studying Torah regularly, practicing gratitude, speaking more gently, or learning to pause before reacting gradually strengthens the inner flame. At times the flame flickers. But it is never gone.
The wilderness generation experienced constant miracles yet remained emotionally fragile. The Torah seems to suggest that miracles alone do not transform character. Real spirituality is measured not by dramatic experiences, but by whether a person becomes more humble, resilient, compassionate, and grateful.
Here is a deep message of Beha’alotecha: Hashem seeks illuminated human beings, not merely passive observers of miracles. People who can sustain hope without constant reassurance. People who continue journeying even through uncertainty.
Later in the parsha, when the cloud lifted, the nation traveled; when it rested, they camped (9:17–23). The people never knew how long they would remain in one place. Sometimes a day, sometimes a year. Spiritual life often feels this way. We crave certainty, but growth frequently unfolds through waiting, trust, and movement without full clarity.
The tragedy of the wilderness generation was not merely that they complained. It was that they stopped believing they could become more than who they once had been.
That question feels especially urgent in an age of rising antisemitism. When Jews are confronted by hatred, fear, or isolation, there is a temptation to retreat into despair or defensiveness. But the menorah teaches the opposite lesson: even a small flame can push back immense darkness. How are you moved through these troubling times to step forward and keep the flame illuminated? It’s been said that “visibility is victory.”
A flame is fragile. It flickers. It requires fuel and protection. Yet even a small flame can illuminate great darkness. So too with the human spirit. Perhaps that is the work of a lifetime: to keep raising the flame within ourselves and within one another until, slowly and steadily, it begins to shine on its own.
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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.