The Humble Light of Moshe: A Deeper Look at Parshat Beha’alotecha through Zerah Shimshon

In this week’s parashah, the Torah pauses its narrative to tell us something
astonishing: ְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה
עָנָו מְאֹד, מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל-פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה — “Now the man Moses
was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth”
(Bamidbar 12:3).

This pasuk appears in the middle of the episode where Miriam and Aharon speak about Moshe Rabbeinu—about his separation from his wife and his unique relationship with Hashem. The Zerah Shimshon, with his characteristic brilliance, asks: Why is this the moment that the Torah reveals Moshe’s supreme humility?

Miriam and Aharon had been discussing Moshe’s separation from his wife. Their argument was not malicious, but perhaps well-intentioned. They, too, were prophets, and yet they had not separated from their spouses. Why then did Moshe feel he needed to?

Zerah Shimshon suggests a line of reasoning behind Moshe’s decision: Before Matan Torah, Hashem commanded all of Israel to separate from their spouses for three days. Why? Because Hashem was going to speak to them. And one who is to receive nevuah must be in a state of ritual purity.

Moshe Rabbeinu, unlike other prophets, experienced nevuah constantly—at any time, without preparation. The Rambam (Yesodei HaTorah 7:6) explains: all prophetsrequire sleep, meditation, or dreams to receive prophecy—but not Moshe. Hashem
spoke to him “peh el peh” (mouth to mouth). Because of that constant readiness, Moshe needed to maintain permanent taharah, and thus separated.

But Miriam and Aharon didn’t see it that way. Perhaps they felt that Moshe’s greatness wasn’t from intrinsic superiority, but because he had been chosen as the representative of the people. Had another been chosen, they too would have gone to the top of Har Sinai.

Today, I want to begin with an idea from one of our generation’s great poskim and teachers, HaRav Asher Weiss, shlit”a. He offers a beautiful insight into the nature of the Kohanim and Leviim—and what it means for us, today.

We all know that originally, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The Torah tells us that it was Hashem’s original intention for the bechor, the firstborn of each Jewish family, to serve in the Mishkan, just as they had done at Har Sinai—offering korbanot on behalf of the nation in preparation for Matan Torah.

But then came the chet ha’egel, the sin of the Golden Calf. And with that fall, the firstborn lost their sanctity. They were replaced by the Leviim—the only shevet who did not participate in the sin.

But as Rav Asher Weiss explains, this wasn’t a mere replacement. This was the unveiling of something deeper. Because in truth, the Tribe of Levi had always been destined for this role. Yaakov Avinu himself foresaw it.

When The Kohen Lifts His Hands: The Mystery and Majesty of
Birkat Kohanim

(Loosely based on a shiur by Rabbi Pinchas Friedman, our
teacher, the Shvilei Pinchas on Parshat Naso)

“חֲצוֹת לַיְלָה אָקוּם לְהוֹדוֹת לָךְ”

“At midnight I rise to thank You” (Psalm 119:62).

Why that verse? Why now?

That moment—his reminder—opened a door in my mind. A doorway back in time. A window into a mystery.

Because David HaMelech, the sweet singer of Israel, didn’t simply thank God at midnight—he awoke at midnight. And not because his eyes happened to open. But because something woke him. Something called him.

The Gemara in Berachot 3b paints the scene.

David hung a harp above his bed. And when midnight arrived—a northern wind would blow. The harp’s strings would stir. A note would sound. And David would rise. Immediately. Without hesitation. And begin to study Torah until dawn.

No alarm clock. No servant knocking on his door.

Just a note. A whisper of Heaven. A tremor in the night that only David could hear.

And I ask you: What kind of man is woken by the wind? What kind of soul hears music when the rest of the world hears silence?