Parashat Bemidbar

May 30, 2025

This is a drasha I delivered to my synagogue community.

This week we start Bemidbar. It begins with what might seem like a dry, bureaucratic task: God commands Moses to take a census of the Israelite men, twenty years and older, who are able to go out to war. This is a military draft.

Why this careful, painstaking accounting? Why count at all? Why only men?

Rashi tells us that God's act of counting is not bureaucratic, but intimate. He writes, "Because of His affection for them, He counts them at every opportunity." This is not about control, but about love.

In a midrash, we have a beautiful story to illustrate this: "A man had a stock of fine pearls. Before taking them out, he would count them. When he put them away, he would count them again. Each pearl was precious to him, too valuable to overlook. So too, God counts the Israelites at every opportunity, because each one is beloved, each one is precious."

I love this story. The idea that each of us is a pearl in God's collection, cherished and counted not for our usefulness but for our own unique, inherent worth.

But then we look at Bemidbar's census: it only counted the men, those eligible for battle. Women, children, elders—none of them were included. This was a practical count, aimed at organizing the camp for military purposes. Yet it leaves us wondering: if each person is a precious pearl, why were so many excluded from this count?

In the 15th century, more than 500 years ago, Rabbi Isaac Arama wrestled with this question. He suggested that even these details—listing names, tribes, and roles—teach us that each individual has a unique worth. He wrote, "They were all equal in stature, and yet the stature of each one was different." The census may have been of men for war, but the broader message is that every individual matters, each one with their own light and voice.

This week, I attended the virtual memorial service for Sarah Milgrim, the young embassy worker who was recently killed outside the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington D.C., along with her boyfriend Yaron Lischinsky. The event was an annual gathering for young diplomats hosted by the American Jewish Committee. It featured a keynote panel with Israeli and American humanitarian leaders, discussing the expansion of aid delivery pathways in Gaza.

I didn't know Sarah personally, but she and her family were members of my Kansas City Jewish community. She was a champion for peace, working on behalf of victims of sexual assault after the October 7 attacks and building bridges through initiatives like Tech2Peace, a joint Israeli-Palestinian NGO.

Yaron was born in Israel to a Jewish father and a Christian mother, and moved between Israel, Germany, and the U.S. He chose to dedicate his life to the State of Israel, to Zionism, and to building understanding between communities. Though his funeral was held at a church, preachers officiated alongside representatives of the Orthodox Jewish burial society.

Yaron's story reminds us that identity is often more complex than a census or a label can capture. And Sarah's story teaches us the importance of building bridges across divides, of creating spaces where every voice can be heard and valued. Like the Israelites in the desert, who were counted and organized but whose deeper worth lay in being cherished as individuals, Yaron and Sarah's lives inspire us to ask: Who are we counting today? Who gets to belong? Who might we be overlooking?

Rashi and the midrash remind us that God counts each of us like pearls—treasured, unique, and irreplaceable. Our task is to follow that divine example: to cherish everyone and to build a community where no one is left out.

May Sarah and Yaron's legacies inspire us to create such a community. Zichronam livracha, may their memories be for a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom.