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Counting on Numbers
Parshat BeMidbar 5771
By Rabbi Mark B Greenspan
It seems as though we're always counting. We count the days of the week; Shabbat is the only day that
has a proper name. The other days are called 'day one,' 'day two' and so on. We count the Omer. Last
night we announced that today is the 39th day of the Omer. At the Seder, we sing, Echad Mi Yodeah,
'Who knows one,' and, 'who knows two.' We number the plagues from ten to fifty to two hundred fifty.
A Jew is supposed to recite 100 blessings every day. And the psalmist teaches us to "number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom."
And, of course, we also count people at a Minyan.
Well, sort of. We're not supposed to count people but we do. Sitting in synagogue on a typical
weekday morning we watch the door anxiously, waiting for the tenth man or woman to walk into our
chapel. In fact we don’t even wait for them to walk in - as soon as we hear the click of the outside door
to the parking lot, we breathe a sigh of relief. We get around the taboo against counting people by
taking a verse from scripture that has ten words and using it as a proxy for making sure we have the
necessary quorum to recite the Kaddish and Borkhu. Hoshea et amekha u'varekh et nach'latekha u'rem
v'nasem ad olam. At OJC you're more likely hear someone mutter, "Oh say can you see by the dawn's
early light."
There's something almost obsessive about the way we are constantly counting. It is as if life can be
quantified; we can measure our lives or the vitality of our community by the numbers of days in our
lives or the sum of people who make up our congregation. Numbers can be a source of anxiety or a
reason for comfort. What is it we say? "There's strength in numbers."
Numbers also play an important role in the Torah. The fourth book of the Torah is the Book of
Numbers. While we usually refer to it as Sefer BeMidbar, "In the wilderness," the sages called it, Sefer
HaPikudim, "The Book of the Accounting." Throughout this book, we find all kinds of lists and
accountings: the number of places Israel visited while traveling through the wilderness, the various
sacrifices brought in the Tabernacle on holy days, and, of course, the number of people who made up
the people of Israel. In the opening chapters of BeMidbar we find an elaborate census in which Moses
and Aaron are instructed to count not only the number of people, but the make-up of the community
based on leadership, families and clans.
The truth is, these lists don’t seem particularly uplifting or spiritual satisfying. What does it matter if
there 603,000 men of drafting age in the generation of the wilderness or 603, 001? Why do we need to
know how many families there were in the tribes of Issachar or Zebulon? Or, for that matter, why was
it necessary to count the people of Israel so many times?
In Torah Table Talk this week, I explored reasons for the census. Rashi, the medieval commentator,
explains that the census was an act of love. Like a king who has a chest full of precious stones and is
constantly counting them, God counted and recounted each and every one of his people in the
wilderness. Rashi writes: "God counted them when they left Egypt, again after they worshipped the
golden calf and again after dedicating the tabernacle." In happy and trying times, God never stopped
valuing each and every one of his people.
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Rashbam, Rashi's grandson, is more pragmatic in the way he views the census. He suggests that it had
a strategic purpose. Israel was preparing for the conquest of Canaan. They needed to know how many
men of drafting age they had in the nation. But again, it was not enough to know numbers. The names,
the individuals, were just as important. Each person who would go to battle was a member of a family,
and an individual in his or her own right. He was a father and a son, a person who had something
unique to contribute to the community. And, therefore, when Moses and Aaron counted the people,
they were told to count them, "by their ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head."
So why do we need to know all this seemingly extraneous and unnecessary information? Apparently,
numbers do count. If there are nine people in synagogue on Monday morning and not ten then we
don’t have a minyan no matter how good our intentions are. And if I count 48 out of the 49 days of the
Omer, I haven’t fulfilled this Mitzvah. For that matter, if I owe the federal government $28, 642.34 in
income tax, and I send a check for $28, 642, see what happens… Small amounts can make a big
difference.
But numbers aren’t everything, either. Despite the meticulous census and the careful organization of
the community, Israel failed to enter the land of Canaan. It would take nearly forty years for the old
generation to die out and a new generation to become worthy of entering the land of Canaan. Numbers
aren’t enough. Interestingly, there would be slightly less people in the next generation to participate in
the conquest. So quantity alone isn't enough; there has to be an element of quality as well. Maybe that's
why Moses not only counted the people but mentioned their names as well. It is easy to dismiss one's
importance if you are simply part of the aggregate population. Each person is not only counted; each
person must also count.
I'm reminded of the story of Chelm. One day the rabbi stood up in synagogue and announced that the
communal wine barrel for Kiddush was nearly empty. If everyone brought a pitcher of wine and
poured it into the barrel, there would be enough to last through the summer. Beryl was the first to
come. Only he thought to himself: what difference will my pitcher of wine make in this big barrel? I'll
pour a pitcher of water into the barrel instead - the wine will be a little weaker but good enough for the
synagogue. Beryl did not know that Shmeryl had the same idea, as did Yankiv, Menachem, Chaim
Leib and everyone else in Chelm. At the end of the week, the rabbi was mystified to find a barrel full
of water instead of wine in synagogue. It remained a great mystery: how did the wine in Chelm turn in
to water?
We make a difference, each of us. To have a community, we need a minimum number. But large
numbers do not necessarily create a stronger community. When we fail to participate in Jewish life,
when we pour water instead of wine into the communal mix, we dilute our community. It takes
commitment and engagement as well as numbers to create a vibrant and visionary community.
So OJC is smaller today than it was 15 or 20 years ago. That's a fact. But we're not necessarily less
vibrant and strong. Based on our numbers, we have new opportunities to do things differently, to
become a more intimate congregation, and to impact the lives of individuals more directly. The real
issue facing our congregation today is not the quantity of our congregation but the quality of our
personal commitment.
Last Sunday I attended a bitter sweet event at Temple Emanuel at Parkchester, my first congregation. I
was the rabbi of Temple Emanuel in the late nineteen seventies for two years while attending
rabbinical school. Last Sunday, Temple Emanuel closed its doors for the last time - there is no longer a
community to maintain the congregation. The thing is, 34 years ago, when I was the rabbi of Temple
Emanuel there already wasn’t a community to maintain this congregation. Somehow, the passion and
commitment of a few people made all the difference.
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And the truth is, that is the way it has always been. In every age a few people made all the difference.
In the classical world, the Pharisees represented a small segment of the community. Through their
strength and persistence, they helped to sustain Jewish life. In every generation, it has been the few
who maintained the many - and who stemmed the tide of assimilation and apathy. And that is the
challenge we face today.
We need to heed the challenge of our parshah: si'u et rosh kol adat yisrael, literally, "Lift up the head
of the whole community of Israel." We need to take pride in who we are. We need to stop mourning
our demise and build a community that matters. We need to make sure every person counts. And we
need to remember that Judaism is measured not just by numbers but by deeds; by the way we learn and
live Jewish life. By the personal commitment and generosity each of us shows. So let's stop counting
and let's start doing. Together we can build a community of faith.
Shabbat Shalom