There is a famous teaching in the Talmud that the Torah was given in the wilderness. It’s a curious detail—of all the possible places God might choose to deliver divine wisdom, why the desert? Why not wait until the Israelites had reached the Promised Land? Why not give the Torah in Egypt, while the people were still crying out for justice, to give them a taste of liberation and hope?
But God chooses neither comfort nor crisis. God chooses the in-between.
The Torah is given not in a palace or a temple, but in a place of disorientation—between slavery and sovereignty, between who we were and who we hope to become. That choice is not incidental. The wilderness, the midbar, becomes a holy classroom. In the desert, we learn what it means to be a people. We learn how to live together, how to argue with each other, how to build structures that support holiness. We learn what we’re capable of—and where we fall short.
Sefer Bamidbar, the Book of Numbers, begins with this idea. Its name in Hebrew—Bamidbar—means “in the wilderness,” and it picks up the story of the Israelites after Sinai. They’ve received the commandments. They’ve built the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary. And now, they begin to move forward. But what follows is not smooth progress. It is a saga of fits and starts, rebellion and renewal. They complain about food, challenge Moses’ leadership, panic about entering the Land. They seem lost—not only geographically, but emotionally and spiritually.
And yet, this wandering is where the deepest growth takes place.
We all want to arrive. We long for certainty, for stability, for home. But Jewish tradition teaches that the journey—especially the uncomfortable, uncertain parts—is where transformation happens. The wilderness is not a detour from real life. It is real life. In our own lives, we experience countless wildernesses: grief, transition, doubt, diagnosis, isolation. These aren’t the chapters we post about on social media, but they are the moments that shape us. They expose what matters. They strip away illusion. They make us into people of resilience.
God gives the Torah in the wilderness because that’s where we are ready to hear it. Not when we feel powerful, but when we are vulnerable. Not when we are full, but when we are hungry. Torah isn’t a prize for the spiritually accomplished. It’s nourishment for those who are trying to stay upright in shifting sand.
The Israelites had to become a different kind of people in order to enter the Land. And God knew they couldn’t do that overnight. Forty years may sound like a punishment, but it’s actually pedagogy. The desert is where they learn patience, humility, courage, and community. They build the Mishkan together, they count themselves tribe by tribe, they create systems of responsibility and care. Slowly, painfully, they grow.
We live in a moment that feels a lot like the wilderness. In Jewish communal life, in Israel, and across the world, the maps we used to trust don’t seem to work anymore. October 7th was a rupture—a tragic moment that reminded us how vulnerable we are and how much we still have to figure out. And in the broader culture, the pace of change, the rise of antisemitism, the erosion of trust—it all leaves many of us disoriented.
But maybe we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.
Not in comfort, but in becoming.
We are being called to do the same thing the Israelites had to do: to count ourselves, to take responsibility for our future, to carry holiness with us as we move through unknown terrain. The Torah’s message is that we do not have to be settled to be sacred. The Mishkan was portable. So is meaning. So is community.
There’s a beautiful rabbinic idea that Torah was given in the wilderness because it was ownerless—hefker. It didn’t belong to one person, one tribe, one class. It was given in an open place, so anyone who wanted it could claim it. That’s radical. It means that divine wisdom is available to all of us, wherever we are, as long as we’re willing to walk into the desert and listen.
And that brings us to Ruth.
Every year on Shavuot, as we celebrate receiving the Torah, we read the Book of Ruth. She too steps into a wilderness. She leaves behind her land, her people, her gods—and chooses a new path. “Where you go, I will go,” she tells Naomi. “Your people shall be my people, your God my God.” Her words are an act of radical belonging. And they echo the same spirit as Bamidbar: transformation through uncertainty.
Ruth doesn’t just convert; she chooses to belong. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. She models what it means to stake your life on something bigger than yourself. To enter a covenant not out of comfort, but out of conviction.
That’s the wilderness at its best—not a place of exile, but of encounter. Encounter with who we really are, and who we might become. Encounter with God, with tradition, with community. We do not have to be perfect to be in covenant. We have to be present. Willing. Open.
The wilderness is where we grow. It’s where we learn how to build something together. It’s where we receive the Torah anew—not once, but every time we choose to listen.
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