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David Brooks, in his bestselling book The Road to Character (2015), draws a sharp distinction between what he calls the résumé virtues – the achievements and skills that bring success – and the eulogy virtues, the ones that are spoken of at funerals: the virtues and strengths that make you the kind of person you are when you are not wearing masks or playing roles, the inner person that friends and family recognize as the real you.

Brooks relates this distinction to the one made by Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik in his famous essay, The Lonely Man of Faith. This essay speaks of “Adam I” – the human person as creator, builder, master of nature imposing his or her will on the world – and “Adam II,” the covenantal personality, living in obedience to a transcendent truth, guided by a sense of duty and right and the will to serve.

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Adam I seeks success. Adam II strives for charity, love, and redemption. Adam I lives by the logic of economics – the pursuit of self-interest and maximum utility. Adam II lives by the very different logic of morality, where giving matters more than receiving, and conquering desire is more important than satisfying it. In the moral universe, success, when it leads to pride, becomes failure. Failure, when it leads to humility, can be success.

In that essay, first published in 1965, Rabbi Soloveitchik wondered whether there was a place for Adam II in the America of his day, so intent was it on celebrating human powers and economic advance. Fifty years on, Brooks echoes that doubt. “We live,” he says, “in a society that encourages us to think about how to have a great career but leaves many of us inarticulate about how to cultivate the inner life.”

That is a central theme of Beha’alotecha. Until now we have seen the outer Moses, worker of miracles, mouthpiece of the Divine Word, unafraid to confront Pharaoh on the one hand and his own people on the other, the man who shattered the Tablets engraved by G-d Himself and who challenged Him to forgive His people – “and if not, blot me out of the book You have written” (Ex. 32:32). This is the public Moses, a figure of heroic strength. In Soloveitchik terminology, it is Moses I.

In Beha’alotecha we see Moses II, the lonely man of faith. It is a very different picture. In the first scene we see him break down. The people are complaining again about the food. They have manna but no meat. They engage in false nostalgia: “We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost, the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlic! (Num. 11:5).

This is one act of ingratitude too many for Moses, who gives voice to deep despair:

“Why have You treated Your servant so badly? Why have I found so little favor in Your sight that You lay all the burden of this people upon me? …. I cannot bear all this people alone; the burden is too heavy for me. If this is how You treat me, kill me now, if I have found favor in Your sight, and let me not see my own misery!” (Num. 11:11-15).

Then comes the great transformation. G-d tells him to take 70 elders who will bear the burden with him. G-d takes the spirit that is on Moses and extends it to the elders. Two of them, Eldad and Medad, among the six chosen from each tribe but left out of the final ballot, begin prophesying within the camp. They too have caught Moses’ spirit. Joshua fears that this may lead to a challenge to Moses’ leadership and urges Moses to stop them. Moses answers with surpassing generosity: “Are you jealous on my behalf? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets, that He would rest His spirit upon them all!” (Num. 11:29).

The mere fact that Moses now knew that he was not alone, seeing 70 elders share his spirit, cures him of his depression, and he now exudes a gentle, generous confidence that is moving and unexpected.

In the third act, we finally see where this drama has been tending. Now Moses’ own brother and sister, Aaron and Miriam, start disparaging him. The cause of their complaint (the “Ethiopian woman” he had taken as a wife) is not clear and there are many interpretations. The point, though, is that for Moses, this is the “Et tu, Brute?” moment. He has been betrayed, or at least slandered, by those closest to him. Yet Moses is unaffected. It is here that the Torah makes its great statement: “Now the man Moses was very humble, more so than any other man on Earth” (Num.12:3).

The idea that a leader’s highest virtue is humility must have seemed absurd, almost self-contradictory, in the ancient world. Leaders were proud, magnificent, distinguished by their dress, appearance, and regal manner. They built temples in their own honor. They had triumphant inscriptions engraved for posterity. Their role was not to serve but to be served. Everyone else was expected to be humble, not they. Humility and majesty could not coexist.

In Judaism, this entire configuration was overturned. Leaders were there to serve, not to be served. Moses’ highest accolade was to be called Eved Hashem, G-d’s servant. Only one other person, Joshua, his successor, earns this title in Tanach. The architectural symbolism of the two great empires of the ancient world, the Mesopotamian ziggurat (the “tower of Babel”) and the pyramids of Egypt, visually represented a hierarchical society, broad at the base, narrow at the top. The Jewish symbol, the menorah, was the opposite, broad at the top, narrow at the base, as if to say that in Judaism the leader serves the people, not vice versa. Moses’ first response to G-d’s call at the Burning Bush was one of humility: “Who am I, to bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Ex. 3:10). It was precisely this humility that qualified him to lead.

In Beha’alotecha we track the psychological process by which Moses acquires a yet deeper level of humility. Under the stress of Israel’s continued recalcitrance, Moses turns inward. Listen again to what he says: “Why have I found so little favor in Your sight…? Did I conceive all these people? Did I give them birth? … Where can I get meat for all these people? … I cannot carry these people alone; the burden is too heavy for me.”

The key words here are “I,” “me” and “myself.” Moses has lapsed into the first person singular. He sees the Israelites’ behavior as a challenge to himself, not G-d. G-d has to remind him, “Is the L-rd’s arm too short?” It isn’t about Moses, it is about what and whom Moses represents.

Moses had been, for too long, alone. It was not that he needed the help of others to provide the people with food. It was that he needed the company of others to end his almost unbearable isolation.

As soon as Moses sees the 70 elders share his spirit, his depression disappears. He is undisturbed by the complaint of his own brother and sister, praying to G-d on Miriam’s behalf when she is punished with leprosy. He has recovered his humility.

We now understand what humility is. True humility means silencing the “I.” For genuinely humble people, it is G-d and other people and principle that matter, not me.

What Beha’alotecha is telling us through these three scenes in Moses’ life is that we sometimes achieve humility only after a great psychological crisis. It is only after Moses had suffered a breakdown and prayed to die that we hear the words, “The man Moses was very humble, more so than anyone on earth.” Suffering breaks through the carapace of the self, making us realize that what matters is not self-regard but rather the part we play in a scheme altogether larger than we are.

In The Road to Character, Brooks reminds us that Abraham Lincoln, who suffered from depression, emerged from the crisis of civil war with the sense that “Providence had taken control of his life, that he was a small instrument in a transcendent task.”

The right response to existential pain, he writes, is not pleasure but holiness, by which he means, “seeing the pain as part of a moral narrative and trying to redeem something bad by turning it into something sacred, some act of sacrificial service that will put oneself in fraternity with the wider community and with eternal moral demands.”

Crisis, failure, loss, or pain can move us from Adam I to Adam II, from self- to other-directedness, from mastery to service, and from the vulnerability of the “I” to the humility that “reminds you that you are not the center of the universe,” but rather that “you serve a larger order.”

Those who have humility are open to things greater than themselves while those who lack it are not. That is why those who lack it make you feel small while those who have it make you feel enlarged. Their humility inspires greatness in others.

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Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks was the former chief rabbi of the British Commonwealth and the author and editor of 40 books on Jewish thought. He died earlier this month.
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