D'var Torah: Parashat Chukat
Shabbat Shalom.
This week, we read Parashat Chukat, which takes place as we approach the end of the forty years that Israel spent in the wilderness. Like all those who came out of Egypt, two of Israel's greatest leaders die in this parshah.
Chizkuni comments on this transition: "Miriam died there"—noting that as the deaths of those condemned to die after the sin of the spies begin, the Torah includes Miriam's and Aaron's passing at this juncture.
Miriam’s death is recorded in B’midbar (Numbers) 20:1 in just five Hebrew words:
וַתָּ֤מׇת שָׁם֙ מִרְיָ֔ם וַתִּקָּבֵ֖ר שָֽׁם
"Miriam died there and was buried there."
That's it.
Miriam was Moses' and Aaron's sister, a prophetess, and a miracle worker. Yet her passing is acknowledged so briefly. Immediately afterward, the narrative turns to a practical concern: there was no water.
Taanit 9a:9 brings the teaching of Rabbi Yosei ben Yehuda:
"Three good sustainers rose up for the Jewish people during the Exodus from Egypt—Moses, Aaron, and Miriam—and three good gifts were given through their merit: the manna, the pillar of cloud, and the well of water."
Miriam was the source of their water in the wilderness.
People often contrast her death with that of her brother Aaron. In this same parshah, Aaron is summoned to ascend Mount Hor with his brother Moses and his son Eleazar. There, the priestly vestments are passed on, and Aaron dies at the direct command of God. The Torah continues:
"All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days." (Numbers 20:29)
I've heard this contrast raised before—why is Aaron's death marked with such ceremony and public mourning, while Miriam's passing seems almost like an afterthought?
I began studying this parshah by asking that exact question. And in my study and conversations, I've become increasingly convinced that the difference in treatment is rooted in sexism, reflecting how men were valued in the ancient world, compared to women.
Rashi addresses a related issue:
"She, too, died by a Divine Kiss, like Moses and Aaron. But why does it not say, 'by the mouth of God,' as it does for them? Because it would not be respectful to speak thus regarding a woman." (Rashi on Numbers 20:1, citing Moed Katan 28a)
The Talmud in Bava Batra 17a also affirms that she died by the Divine Kiss. But I found Rashi's and the Talmud's explanations unsatisfying. They seek to defend God's honor, but they sidestep the real issue: Was Miriam not worthy of public mourning? Of remembrance?
To be fair, Aaron and Miriam had different public roles. Aaron was the High Priest—a religious leader with daily public ritual duties. He is referred to as a prophet in Exodus 7:1–2, but this designation is within the context of Moses serving as his spokesman to Pharaoh. His role was visible. His absence would be noticed.
Miriam's leadership, though, was no less real. She led the women in song at the Sea, she spoke prophecy, and she sustained the people with water. Her work was essential, even if less publicly visible.
Reading Megillah 14a, I found a different lens through which to understand her legacy:
"Many prophets arose for the Jewish people, numbering double the number of Israelites who left Egypt. However, only a portion of the prophecies were recorded, because only prophecy that was needed for future generations was written down in the Bible for posterity, but that which was not needed, as it was not pertinent to later generations, was not written."
That implies over 1.2 million people received prophecy during the Exodus generation. But only 55 prophets are mentioned in the Tanakh, 48 men and 7 women. (Depending on how you count—it includes Sarah, but excludes the Patriarchs.)
Of those 55, only 5 have their deaths explicitly recorded. Add the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, and that number grows to 12.
For some of the women, like Rebekah and Leah, the Torah tells us only where they were buried. There is no mourning, no lament.
While meditating on that, I thought about all the people who are underrepresented in our tradition and in our society. You could argue that the city's water department is every bit as essential as the Mayor's office—just as Miriam's well sustained life every day, even without a public ceremony.
That brought my thoughts to Pride.
We're just past Pride month, a time of celebration, resilience, and visibility for the LGBTQ+ community. But this year felt different. Political tensions rose. Some of the loudest corporate allies from past years pulled back. Some of the pillars of corporate Pride - including former employers of mine - chose to stay quiet.
Even if their support is transactional or performative, their presence matters. And their absence is felt.
It made me wonder: how many of those who sided with Korach in last week's parshah showed up to mourn Aaron this week?
I won't say we should reject support from institutions that turn their backs—we need it. But that support doesn't define us.
And I won't say Miriam didn't deserve to be mourned publicly alongside her brothers: she did.
Her absence from public lament is a reflection not of her worth, but of how her society failed to honor her.
Still, her name endures. As Micah 6:4 reminds us:
"I brought you up from Egypt… and I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam."
She is counted among the leaders of Israel. She is remembered. She sustained a people. She danced at the sea. And she prophesied in the wilderness.
May we continue to draw inspiration from Miriam's strength, leadership, and the life-giving sustenance she provided, both physical and spiritual.
May her memory continue to be a blessing.
Shabbat Shalom.
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