Numbers 21

Hook

Imagine a shul in Cairo, Marrakech, or Aleppo, the air thick with the scent of spices and old leather-bound texts. A voice rises, rich with the inflections of generations, chanting a piyut that echoes the very desert wanderings of our ancestors, carrying the weight of ancient laments and the soaring hope of redemption. This is the heartbeat of Sephardi and Mizrahi Torah — a tradition not merely read, but felt, sung, and lived in every fiber of Jewish experience.

Context

Place

Our journey through Sephardi and Mizrahi heritage spans vast geographies, from the Iberian Peninsula (Sepharad) across North Africa (Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt) to the Middle East (Syria, Iraq, Iran, Yemen, Turkey, Bukhara, the Caucasus, and India). These communities, often living amidst diverse cultures, forged unique expressions of Jewish life deeply rooted in Halakha while absorbing the vibrant musical and poetic traditions of their surroundings. This rich tapestry of locales meant that Jewish learning flourished in centers like Fes, Baghdad, Aleppo, and Salonica, each adding its distinct hue to the broader Sephardi/Mizrahi mosaic.

Era

The heritage we celebrate stretches back millennia, predating the geonic era, but truly blossomed during the Golden Age of Spain, continued through the Ottoman Empire, and found resilience in diverse lands. From the Gaonim of Babylon to the Rishonim and Acharonim of North Africa and the Levant, these traditions have been continuously shaped and transmitted. The text of Numbers 21, recounting the Israelites' challenges and triumphs in the wilderness, resonated profoundly with communities who themselves navigated complex historical landscapes, often facing adversity, yet always holding onto their faith and unique practices. It’s a heritage that speaks of ancient roots, medieval flourishing, and modern revival.

Community

The Sephardi and Mizrahi communities, though diverse, share fundamental threads: a profound reverence for Halakha, often articulated through the lens of figures like the Rambam and the Shulchan Aruch (Rabbi Yosef Karo, himself a Sephardi posek); a deep appreciation for piyut (liturgical poetry) and bakashot (petitions); and a communal life often centered around prayer and learning, with distinct customs in synagogue architecture, prayer melodies, and family traditions. These communities often maintained a strong connection to the Land of Israel and Hebrew language, contributing immeasurably to Jewish scholarship, mysticism, and literature. They are communities defined by resilience, spiritual depth, and an unwavering commitment to Jewish continuity.

Text Snapshot

From Numbers 21, we encounter a pivotal moment in the wilderness journey:

They set out from Mount Hor by way of the Sea of Reeds to skirt the land of Edom. But the people grew restive on the journey, and the people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food.” GOD sent seraph serpents against the people. They bit the people and many of the Israelites died. The people came to Moses and said, “We sinned by speaking against GOD and against you. Intercede with GOD to take away the serpents from us!” And Moses interceded for the people. Then GOD said to Moses, “Make a seraph figure and mount it on a standard. And anyone who was bitten who then looks at it shall recover.” Moses made a copper serpent and mounted it on a standard; and if someone was bitten by a serpent, they would look at the copper serpent and recover.

Minhag/Melody

The Power of Bakashot: Collective Prayer and Healing

The narrative of the Nachash HaNechoshet, the copper serpent, in Numbers 21:4-9, speaks to a profound aspect of Jewish spiritual life: the power of sincere prayer, repentance (teshuvah), and collective intention in times of distress. When the Israelites, afflicted by fiery serpents, turn to Moses, he intercedes, and God provides a means of healing: looking at the copper serpent. This act of "looking" is not merely physical; it represents a turning of the heart, a focused intention (kavanah) towards the Divine. This deep interplay of affliction, repentance, prayer, and divine response finds a magnificent expression in the Sephardi and Mizrahi tradition of Bakashot.

Bakashot (singular: bakasha, meaning "request" or "petition") are devotional poems and prayers, often sung collectively, typically early on Shabbat morning, before the main Shaharit service. While they exist in various forms across many Sephardi and Mizrahi communities, they are particularly renowned in Moroccan, Syrian, and Turkish traditions. These piyutim are not just hymns; they are profound theological and mystical meditations, often expressing longing for God, repentance for sins, and pleas for divine mercy, healing, and redemption.

Consider the context of Numbers 21. The people complain, they are punished, they repent, and they are offered a path to healing. The act of looking at the copper serpent is a physical manifestation of a spiritual act of teshuvah and faith. Similarly, Bakashot serve as a spiritual "copper serpent" for the community. In the quiet solemnity of the pre-dawn hours, voices blend in intricate harmonies, often in maqam (modal) melodies characteristic of their respective regions. The texts, penned by revered poets and rabbis throughout the ages (such as Rabbi Israel Najara, Rabbi David Buzaglo, and countless others), are imbued with Kabbalistic allusions, biblical verses, and heartfelt entreaties.

One might find a bakasha like "Lecha Eli Teshukati" (To You, My God, is my Desire) which speaks of the soul's yearning for God, mirroring the Israelites' desperate turning to Moses and, through him, to God. Or "Ribbon HaOlamim" (Master of the Worlds), a powerful plea for divine compassion and forgiveness, echoing the people's confession of sin. The communal singing of these bakashot fosters a shared sense of spiritual elevation, creating a sacred space where individual prayers merge into a powerful collective outpouring. It’s a communal kavanah, a collective “looking up” to the Divine for healing and salvation, much like the individual Israelites looked at the copper serpent.

The melodies themselves are integral to the experience. They are often complex, evocative, and deeply moving, passed down orally through generations. A seasoned paytan (singer of piyutim) leads the congregation, drawing them into a meditative state. The maqam system, with its distinct emotional qualities, enhances the spiritual journey of the bakashot, guiding the participants through feelings of humility, sorrow, hope, and joy. Just as the mere act of looking at the serpent was sufficient for physical healing, the communal singing of bakashot is believed to bring spiritual healing, fostering teshuvah and drawing down divine mercy.

This tradition beautifully encapsulates the Sephardi/Mizrahi approach to spirituality: it is deeply intellectual yet profoundly emotional, communal yet intensely personal, ancient yet ever-relevant. The Bakashot are a living testament to the belief that through earnest prayer and collective devotion, even in the face of fiery trials, healing and connection with the Divine are always possible. They are a weekly re-enactment of the spiritual lesson of the copper serpent, reminding us to turn our gaze towards Heaven, individually and as a community, for strength and salvation.

Contrast

The "Canaanite" vs. "Amalek" Identity: A Difference in Interpretive Focus

Our text begins with the confrontation with the "Canaanite, king of Arad" (Numbers 21:1). Both Rashi and Ramban, foundational commentators studied across all Jewish communities, delve into the identity of this aggressor, but their emphasis and approach highlight a subtle yet significant difference, reflecting broader interpretive tendencies.

Rashi, drawing heavily from the Midrash (specifically Rosh Hashanah 3a and Midrash Tanchuma, Chukat 18), interprets the "Canaanite" as actually being Amalek in disguise. He states: "This was Amalek, as it is said, (Numbers 13:29), 'Amalek was the inhabitant of the south country.' But he purposely changed his speech, talking in the 'Canaanite' tongue, so that Israel might thereby be misled and would pray to the Holy One, blessed be He, that he should give the Canaanites into their power, whilst really they were not Canaanites, and their prayer would be ineffectual against the Amalekites." This midrashic approach emphasizes the deceptive nature of Amalek, the perpetual enemy, and highlights the need for precise prayer and divine wisdom to discern true threats. For Rashi, the narrative serves to impart a deeper spiritual lesson about the nature of evil and the efficacy of prayer.

Ramban, while acknowledging this Midrash (he cites the Rabbis' discussion on the "report which he heard" from Rosh Hashanah 3a and Tanchuma), offers a primary interpretation that adheres more closely to the p'shat (plain meaning) of the text, while still seeking to reconcile it with other biblical passages. He first argues that the King of Arad was indeed a Canaanite king "who dwelt in the south on the western side of the Jordan, in the land of Canaan near the Jordan," and "he heard from afar of the coming of the children of Israel, so he [the king] came by the way of Atharim to the plains of Moab to fight there against Israel." Ramban dedicates significant effort to geographically and chronologically reconciling this battle with later events described in Joshua and Judges, suggesting a multi-stage fulfillment of Israel's vow. He then offers a secondary, midrashic explanation, stating, "Likewise the Rabbis have said that this Canaanite was Amalek."

The difference lies not in rejecting the Midrash, but in its placement and function. Rashi often presents the Midrash as the primary, even plain, understanding of the verse, believing the Torah speaks in a way that implies these deeper meanings. Ramban, while revering the Midrash, often first seeks a p'shat explanation that resolves textual difficulties through logical and contextual analysis, then brings in the Midrash as an additional, profound layer of understanding or as a solution for specific textual anomalies (like the lack of mentioned war in Numbers 33:40).

This distinction reflects a nuanced difference in interpretive priorities that, while not absolute, often characterizes Ashkenazi (Rashi's primary influence) and Sephardi (Ramban's primary influence) approaches to Torah study. Both value p'shat and drash (Midrash), but the starting point and the way they are woven together can differ. This respectful divergence enriches our understanding, showing how the same sacred text can yield multiple layers of truth, each illuminating a different facet of God's word.

Home Practice

The Contemplative Gaze: A Moment of Kavanah

In the spirit of the Israelites looking at the copper serpent to find healing, let's adopt a simple yet profound Sephardi/Mizrahi inspired practice of kavanah (intention and focus). When faced with a personal challenge, a worry, or even just during a moment of reflection in your day, take a pause. Instead of immediately seeking an external solution or succumbing to distress, consciously turn your inner gaze towards a symbol of Divine presence. This could be a sacred object in your home, a phrase from prayer, or simply the mental image of the Hebrew letters of God's Name.

Just as the Israelites' physical act of looking was a conduit for a deeper spiritual turning, your focused attention, even for a minute, can shift your perspective. Acknowledge your vulnerability, express your hopes or fears (even silently), and consciously connect to the source of all healing and strength. This is not about magic, but about cultivating a sustained awareness of God's presence in all circumstances, fostering trust and an inner calm. It's a small, daily act of faith, reminding us that even in our struggles, we are invited to look up and find solace.

Takeaway

The Sephardi and Mizrahi heritage, as exemplified by our journey through Numbers 21, teaches us that Jewish life is a vibrant tapestry of learning, devotion, and resilience. It's a call to engage with text not just intellectually, but with our entire being – through song, through communal prayer, and through a profound, heartfelt connection to our shared history and the Divine. In every challenge, great or small, this tradition offers us pathways to healing, repentance, and an unwavering hope in God's mercy.