The Roots of Our Behavior

By Rabbi Moshe Krieger, Yeshivas Bircas HaTorah

In this week’s parsha we learn about two incidents in which the Jewish People complained during their initial wanderings in the desert. First, they complained of the travails of their journey, and later they expressed their craving for meat. Both times they were severely punished.

We can only wonder: why did they complain? Wasn’t Hashem providing them with miraculous food and shelter? And didn’t the nation have an ample supply of cattle (Shmos 12:38)?

Rashi explains that these complaints were in fact only a thin veneer covering their inner desire to free themselves of the close relationship that they had with Hashem.

This is hard to accept. This generation had experienced the Exodus from Egypt and the splitting of the Red Sea, where they pointed to Hashem and said, “This is My G-d.” They had                                  stood at Har Sinai and declared naaseh venishma. How could such people later want to free themselves from Hashem? Were they really willing to give up all the closeness that they had reached?

Rav Eliyahu Dessler explains that within the human psyche as a whole, there is a sense of selfishness that makes it hard for most people to subjugate themselves to Hashem entirely. This subtle element of their personality, this slight leaning toward selfishness, was at the root of their complaint about the hardships of their journey, or their desire for meat. Deep down, it wasn’t that they craved meat, or were so hard-pressed by the journey—what bothered them was that they had to commit themselves entirely to Hashem.

The Sages document this phenomenon much earlier. In Shabbos (116a), Tosafos cites a Midrash that compares the Jewish People as they left Har Sinai to a “child running away from cheder.” It was this sense of selfishness, of feeling unable to be locked up all day, fully channeled into Hashem’s avoda, that caused them to try to break loose. This in turn strengthened the people’s yetzer hara.

Rav Chanoch Leibowitz says that sometimes a person is entirely unaware that at the root of his bad behavior is a deep-seated sense of selfishness. Other times it may be a taava we have that we are in fact capable of suppressing, but which manifests itself in the form of other bad behaviors. A bachur claims that it’s hard for him to concentrate in learning, while at the root of his problem is his taava for a laid-back, unserious lifestyle.

Rav Leibowitz concludes that if the dor hamidbar displayed such negative behaviors, then we certainly can be guilty of this. When we complain that Torah study is difficult, we must examine ourselves: is there a taava or bad midda lurking behind this? We should speak this out, actually asking ourselves: Why is learning not going well? Is it because I’m driven by a desire for kavod, or being eaten away by jealousy, or am I intent on living an easy life? Speak this out until things come to the surface.

Rav Leibowitz notes that Rabbeinu Bechaye, in his introduction to Chovas Halevovos, describes how he himself analyzed his actions. There, he writes that he knew that a sefer detailing the duties of the heart was needed, but at first he decided against writing it, thinking to himself: Who am I to write such a sefer? Am I really qualified to teach the generation such lofty matters?

Afterwards, however, he writes that he examined his motives, suspicious that perhaps at the root of his refusal was the attribute of laziness.

Just as Rabbeinu Bechayeh suspected himself, so should we, and ask ourselves: why are we complaining, really?

The Ramban explains the complaints recorded in our parsha differently.  In a sense, the Ramban justifies why they voiced hardship over their predicament. As hard as the Egyptian slavery was, the nation nevertheless remained in an area of civilization, whereas they were now in a desert. No amenities of any sort existed other than what was provided for them miraculously. This was a radically new way of life that they had to get used to. Indeed, any change of lifestyle is hard at the beginning, and even their complaints were nothing more than a slight moan or groan. Nevertheless, the Ramban states that they should have been happy even in these conditions because they knew Hashem was with them and could see that He was providing them all their needs — food, clothing, shelter, etc. — and that He would surely continue to do so.

This principle applies for us as well. Sometimes, we have difficulties or feel put upon and conclude that “we have the right to moan a little bit.” Instead, we should stop ourselves and think: Can’t you see that Hashem is with you? Weren’t there other difficulties in the past and yet you’re still here today? Isn’t what’s happening to you for the good? Look at all the other good things He did for us! Doesn’t that mean that even what we don’t recognize as good must surely be for our good?

The parsha documents that at times, the nation encamped in the Sinai Desert in one place for a long time, and at other times, they remained only briefly in an encampment. The Ramban notes that often, what the people wanted was the opposite of what the clouds of glory did. If they wanted to remain in the same place, they were ordered to move, or vice-versa. This, explains Rav Chatzkel Levinstein was intended to train them, that the main thing is not what you want but what Hashem wants. Hashem knows what He’s doing, and what He wants is what is truly good for you.

At the end of his life, Rav Yehuda Ze’ev Segal, the tzaddik and Rosh Yeshiva of  Manchester, was beset by illness and bedridden. Once, a talmid came to visit him and asked: “Rebbe, how do you feel?”

“I couldn’t be better,” Rav Segal answered. “If this is how Hashem wants me to feel, then there is nothing better for me in the world.”

May we recognize the good in all Hashem does for us!