• Table For Five

Why did God select a notoriously stiff-necked people to be a light unto the nations?

Table for Five: Chukat

In partnership with the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles

Edited by Nina Litvak & Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist

The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in this desert, for there is no bread and no water, and we are disgusted with this rotten bread.” Num. 21:5

Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld
Freelance Rabbi, Scholar In-Residence Aish/JMI

I tell people that if my love of the Jewish people was ever at risk it was the four summers I spent as a waiter in a Kosher restaurant in the Catskills. Every day was a chorus of complaints and cajoling. The food was too hot, not hot enough or it suffered from some other life-altering defect. The whole experience left a sour taste in my mouth.

But my experience begs the question. How do we reconcile the demanding and complaining nature of the Jewish people with its concurrent mission to be G-d’s torch-bearers in the world; to be “a light unto the nations”? What did G-d see in us that persuaded him to overlook what appears to be, an undesirable part of our nature?

The answer is deceptively simple. He didn’t see defects. He saw the holy potential and nature of a people who would stubbornly, fiercely and compassionately pursue the Jewish mission in all its glory.

To be sure, each quality can be expressed in a holy way and an unholy way and the stakes are high. In every interaction and in every context we are either sanctifying G-d’s name or desecrating it. So my friends, let’s live lives of holy stubbornness and let’s demand the best of ourselves. Humanity and waiters deserve nothing less.

Rabbi Chanan Gordon
International Inspiration Speaker, Senior Lecturer, Gateways

In Parshat Chukas, Bamidbar 21:5, the Torah describes the Jewish People’s lack of gratitude for the selfless leadership of Moses who had delivered them out of the dark days of slavery in Egypt with the following words –“Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no food and no water, and we are disgusted with this lechem haklokel (rotten bread).’”

In Tehillim, Psalm 78, we learn of a very different description of the manna i.e., “Man ate lechem abirim (‘the bread of angels’) – He sent them provision to the full.” This begs the question – Was the manna rotten bread as Jewish People described it or was it bread of angels as the psalm indicates?

The Talmud in Maseches Yoma 75b responds – At first the manna was like the ‘bread of angels’ and miraculously absorbed into the limbs so there was no need to go to the bathroom. Once the Jewish People started complaining and called the manna “lechem haklokel,” G-d removed the miracle and made it a food that would have refuse.

The word “Judaism” contains the root “hodu” – meaning “to give thanks.” One of the messages the Jewish People is tasked with is to teach gratitude to the world. G-d does not owe us anything. Life is a gift. Complaining is the antithesis of gratitude. When things are going well, we should always be grateful; and inevitably, when challenges arise, we should be graceful but never ungrateful.

Rabbi Jonathan Leener
Prospect Heights Shul

At first glance, their response seems painfully immature. They had just witnessed the grandeur of God’s might—the sea split, the manna fell, Sinai thundered. How could they fall so quickly into fear and complaint?

But perhaps what we see is not rebellion, but regression—a reversion to childlike helplessness in the face of overwhelming change. In the language of the soul, this is not just about thirst or hunger. It is a cry over something deeper: the unraveling of a certain kind of closeness with God. The God who once carried them like infants is now asking them to walk on their own. And that terrifies them.

They are not just afraid of the land ahead—they are afraid of growing up. The intimacy of the desert is beginning to fade, and they do not yet know how to find God in responsibility, in struggle, in distance.

But regression is not failure. It is the soul gathering itself before it moves forward. In life’s mysterious unfolding, we often move backward in order to move ahead. The Hasidic masters understood this as a yeridah l’tzorech aliyah—a descent for the sake of ascent. We go down so that we can rise even higher.

Rabbanit Alissa Thomas-Newborn
Congregation Netivot Shalom and NewYork-Presbyterian

The insult against the manna is that it is not heavy or filling. The Hebrew describes it as the least valuable bread, extremely light. Why is this a criticism? Or HaChayim answers that when someone travels by foot, they need to eat a heavy meal so it digests with the walking. If a person’s stomach feels empty, travel by foot is much more burdensome. The people were complaining that they did not feel full. Was the manna not satiating? Our rabbis teach that as a Divine food, it filled them without that unpleasant “stuffed” feeling. Like the difference between eating a protein salad versus a heavy pasta or meat dish. Their perception of feeling lighter after eating manna led to the psychological experience of feeling less full. Thus, the complaints were less about reality than perception. Without fail, they were provided with food daily, but still they worried. Our commentaries teach that the people complaining here are only from the original generation that left Egypt. Why? This is a slave mentality. Looking over one’s shoulder, never truly trusting or allowing oneself to be satiated or shift from just surviving to thriving. This truth resonates beyond a literal slave. We can all get caught up in surviving such that we forget to feel satiated. In doing so, we miss the opportunity to find fullness in moments of “lightness.” Let us ask: Physically, spiritually, and psychologically, how often do we seek out perceived satiation, overlooking that which is truly filling?

Rabbi David Eliezrie
President of Rabbinical Council of Orange County, Senior Rabbi at Chabad Beth Meir HaCohen in Yorba Linda

Throughout history the Jewish people have questioned their circumstances. As Rashi points out, this time they even challenged both G-d and Moses—seeing Moses as the embodiment of Divine authority in the world. At the core of this lies a profound debate: How do we define right and wrong? Is morality determined by human intelligence and conscience, or by the ideals given by G-d at Mount Sinai?

A common modern argument is, “Do as you please, as long as you don’t harm others and you’re happy.” As Americans, we are fortunate to have the Bill of Rights,—the promise of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” In Judaism, however, the focus is not on rights but on responsibilities. Morality is not shaped by our fleeting desires, but by Divine instruction of the Torah. Instead of simply following our feelings, we are called to aspire to higher ideals.

This approach can be uncomfortable, it asks us to measure our actions not by the whims of the moment, but by the enduring principles of the Torah. It challenges us to confront moral questions differently—not as self-appointed arbiters of good and bad, but as individuals striving to align our actions with the teachings of Sinai.

Jews of ancient times questioned G-d and Moses, so too do people today wrestle with these same issues. The lesson is timeless: the essence of life is to strive to do what is good according to the Torah, rather than simply following the impulses of the moment.

With thanks to Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld, Rabbi Chanan Gordon, Rabbi Jonathan Leener, Rabbanit Alissa Thomas-Newborn and Rabbi David Eliezrie.

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