“Vayivku et Aharon shloshim yom, kol beit Yisrael.” And they cried over Aaron (mourned his passing) for 30 days, the entire house of Israel.

This text from Parshat Chukat tells us that all the people — men and women, even children — mourned the death of Aaron HaKohen. In contrast, only the men mourned Moshe Rabbeinu’s death, as later reported in Deut. 34:8, “Vayivku B’nai Yisrael.” The text continues that no one ever reached Moshe’s level of holiness and prophecy.

What was so special about Aaron that all loved him so deeply? Didn’t Moshe teach Torah to the entire nation? He was, after all, the person in whose merit God provided the manna to the generation in the desert.

At times, I’ve wondered if Korach might have been treated just a bit too harshly by Moses and God.

In this week’s portion, the Israelites are heading out into the wilderness, wandering in earnest. Already on more than one occasion, individuals and groups within the Israelite community have essentially asked the question, “Who’s in charge here?” Before the plagues, they challenged Moses’ authority. While Moses was on Mount Sinai, they challenged Aaron’s authority. And even earlier, in the book of Genesis, Abraham challenged God’s authority, standing up to the Holy One of blessing when God was resolved to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah.

Imagine that — Jews questioning authority! It seems that challenging the establishment is an almost ingrown aspect of our Jewish nature. I have to say that I like this aspect of our tradition; it challenges us to not simply accept everything we’re told but to ask questions to bring forward our doubts, and, perhaps most importantly, to be willing to speak truth to power.

So here is Korach, a member of Moses’ own tribe, asking Moses and Aaron what seems to be a fair, honest, if challenging question; essentially, who put you in charge? Specifically, Korach and his minions said to Moses and Aaron, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Eternal is in their midst. Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?” (Numbers 16:3)

For this act of rebellion, Korach is rejected in the Torah. God opens up the earth, swallowing the rebels, and killing them. What is it that makes Korach different from Abraham? Why is what Korach does so profoundly more terrible than Nathan pointing his finger at King David? Rabbi Daniel Zemel has written that, for us, Korach is the personification of the rebel who has no cause. But on the surface of the text, it’s not immediately clear why that’s the case.

The great 20th century commentator Nechama Leibowitz asks us to read Korach’s words very carefully. “For all the community are holy,” Korach says. Leibowitz notes that Korach uses the plural “community are holy” as opposed to “community is holy.” She teaches that in doing so, Korach is describing the Israelite community as a gathering of individuals, rather than a collective unit. Korach’s effort is not a mission of holiness and is not intended to advance a nobler purpose; it is, instead, a challenge rooted in his own individual ambition. Leibowitz calls Korach and his followers “a band of malcontents, each harboring his own personal grievances against authority, animated by individual pride and ambition, united to overthrow Moses and Aaron and hoping thereby to attain their individual desires.” (Studies in Bamidbar, 1980)

In this way, Korach is like the wicked son of the Passover seder but on steroids; not only does Korach exclude himself from the community, but he obliterates the idea of community altogether, exchanging it for an “every person for themselves” attitude. Through his actions, Korach is truly a model of the destructive voice, challenging Moses and Aaron for no other reason than to tear down their leadership and to enhance his own personal advancement.

What then are we to learn from this story, which, despite its violent end, remains an evocative part of our sacred text? Surely it does not mean that we are never to challenge authority. Judaism has at its core a countercultural, challenging spirit. In other places in our sacred text we are called upon — commanded even — to shake the status quo, to rock the establishment, and to rebel. Perhaps from Korach we can learn, however, about what kind of rebels we should be. We cannot rebel simply to destroy those in power. We cannot rebel simply to further our own personal goals. We can challenge authority only if we have a higher, sustaining cause.

All of the community is holy. We have seen, even recently, leaders who have chosen to lead simply for their own self-aggrandizement, or who have chosen, once in power, to misuse that power for their own personal gain. We should rebel and reject this type of leader.

All of the community is holy. We have known leaders who have forgotten that we are a collective community that needs leaders who will look out for the welfare of all. We should reject these leaders, and seek out those who understand, and hold them accountable to do justice by the whole community.

Sometimes in the Torah, we learn as much, if not more, from the negative role models as we do from the positive ones.

Parshat Shelach is famous for the story of the spies Moshe sends to scout out the land of Israel. We know that the 12 people who were chosen were honorable, distinctive men amongst the Jewish people. After 40 days, 10 of the spies came back with negative reports while two — Caleb and Yehoshua — came back with a positive report.

The verse in Numbers 13:33 states, “And there we saw the giants and we in our own eyes were like grasshoppers and so we were in their eyes.” Rashi quotes the Tractate Sotah (35a), which states our verse, and the Talmud asks whether this is a falsity. The spies could know how they viewed themselves, but how could they know how the Canaanites viewed them? The Talmud gives an answer that the spies saw the Canaanites give a first meal to a mourner under a cedar tree; when the spies were seen, they climbed into trees. They heard the Canaanites say that they saw ant-sized people in the trees.

I would like to take a slightly different approach to understand our verse. The spies viewed themselves as being like grasshoppers, like worthless people. It was this belief in themselves that caused the spies to think that this must be what the Canaanites were thinking as well. Instead of having faith in Hashem that Hashem gave them a beautiful, fruitful land and that everything that Hashem does is certainly good, they were focused on the fact that they looked small in the face of big giants. This attitude caused them to have little self-worth and little self-esteem. They were concentrating on the negative rather than the positive.

The following story from the book “Chassidic Tales of the Holocaust” illustrates this point of thinking and feeling positive even in the face of negativity. A group of Jews were living in a ghetto under the worst of circumstances watching their families and friends being murdered left and right. One of the rabbis (the Bluzhover rebbe) of the ghetto was able to keep track of the Hebrew calendar in these horrific times and soon it was the first night of Chanukah. Some of the Jews in the ghetto wanted very much to light a Chanukah candle. They mustered together a piece of cloth from their garments and some oil from a shoe polish and they secretly lit a candle. The rabbi of the ghetto started to make the blessings. He recited the first blessing and then the second blessing. The third blessing is the blessing of “shehecheyanu,” which praises God for bringing us to this special time to be able to perform this special commandment. The rabbi comes to the third blessing and he pauses. In his mind, he is wondering if it is appropriate to make the shehecheyanu blessing under these horrific circumstances. The rabbi looks around at all the people gathered to glean light and hope from this candle and he proceeds to make the final blessing. After the blessing, one Jew approaches the rabbi and askes how he could make such a blessing when there are dead people all around. The rabbi responds, “I asked myself the same question and then I looked and saw how many people were willing to risk their lives for the sake of this commandment. This is the biggest sanctification of God’s name and therefore very appropriate to thank God for this special moment.”

In the world of outreach, this message is abundantly clear. We must constantly be aware of the infinite value of every human being, and the contribution each can make. Such awareness will naturally lead to reaching and connecting with others, establishing sincere relationships and reintroducing them to their roots. At the same time we will be immeasurably enriched by the encounter.

It hit me full force while attending a lecture on ethics and halacha. The rabbi informed his audience that Jewish law knew no kind of independent moral ethic, nor could it ever be influenced by ethical developments in human society.

Every answer was derivative and the system was not penetrable by outside influences. Further, there could never be recourse to new revelations of God’s will; and besides, “Heaven forefend, we would never want to be prophets!”

In this week’s portion, Naso (Numbers 4:21–7:89), Aaron and his sons are instructed to bless the People of Israel and they are given a formulaic blessing that is still used in synagogue services, borrowed by parents to bless their children on Friday nights and offered to brides before their weddings. Perhaps this is the origin of offering God’s blessing, but it is far from the only instance.

There is an infinite yearning in many people to feel God’s presence, to be in God’s presence. Yet the fulfillment of that yearning is, ultimately, elusive. One moment a person seems to sense God’s presence; in the next moment the feeling is gone. Yet, for that one fleeting moment, that person has had an extraordinary experience. The person would like to replicate it, but it is not easy. It may come again, or it may never come again, but the memory lingers And, still, for some people, such experiences never come. No matter how intense their yearning, it never comes. Yet the yearning persists.

If we are taught in Pirkei Avot that 13 is the age of mitzvot or religious obligation (ben shalosh esrei la’mitzvot), then it seems clear from the opening verses of this week’s sedra of BaMidbar that 20 is the true age of responsibility.

“Me-ben esrim shanah vama-alah kol yotzai tzava be-Yisrael” — 20 years and older was the age designated for all able males to serve in the military protection of the then-nascent Jewish people. It is, therefore, no strange irony that in our own time the Israel Defense Forces find young Israelis — male and female, I might add — of the same age cohort, serving in the defense of their country. While it is the case that gius, the military draft, is at age 18, it is so because it is the post high school age and a time when young people have yet to develop full executive function and are still able to be molded and re-socialized by their superiors for the necessary behaviors and roles of a military force.

Our tradition looks at every completion as the start of a new cycle. This Shabbat we complete the reading of the third book of the Bible, Va-Yikra, and in the afternoon begin the fourth book, Be’midbar. Before the last verse of Be’hukkotai the congregation rises and when the last words are read we respond with “Chazak chazak v’nithazek.” This anthem — “Strength, strength and may we be strengthened” — reflects the Jewish ideal that recognizes that shared study gives the individual and the community the ability to commit and recommit to a process that can guarantee the future.