This week we conclude the reading of the Book of Numbers—a book filled with crises, complaints, rebellions, and punishments. The forty years in the wilderness are nearing the end, but just before entering the Land of Israel, a new kind of crisis emerges.
The tribes of Gad and Reuben, who possess vast herds of livestock, ask to remain on the eastern side of the Jordan River, a region well suited to raising their flocks.
Moses is appalled. To him, their request reflects concern for their own interests and poses a serious threat to communal solidarity. His sharp rebuke echoes powerfully in Israeli society today: “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here?” (Numbers, 32:6)
The crisis is resolved only when they commit themselves to leading the troops to combat, fighting alongside the other tribes until the conquest is complete. Moses relents and agrees that the tribes of Gad and Reuben may build towns for their families and enclosures for their livestock, provided that they first lead the way in helping the rest of Israel secure its inheritance.
Did they keep their promise?
In the Book of Joshua, we learn that the two-and-a-half tribes (the half-tribe of Manasseh later joined them and shared in the military campaign) indeed honored their commitment. They fought shoulder to shoulder with the rest of Israel for many years, and only after the wars had ended did Joshua release them to return to their homes across the Jordan.
All’s well that ends well—or almost.
The Book of Joshua tells us that on their journey home, they do something strange: they build on the banks of the Jordan “a great conspicuous altar.” (Joshua 22:10).
This act—like their original request to settle east of the Jordan River—is carried out unilaterally. Once again, it arouses deep suspicion and discomfort among the rest of the people. When Joshua and the Israelites hear about it, their reaction is immediate and severe. Just as Moses had earlier, they interpret the move as an act of rebellion, a betrayal, and an attempt to divide the nation religiously and politically, since sacrifices were permitted only on the altar at the Tabernacle in Shiloh. A delegation led by the zealous Phinehas is sent to investigate.
Then comes the startling explanation offered by the tribes of Gad and Reuben.
They had not built the altar in order to offer sacrifices. They built it out of profound anxiety about the future:
"We did this thing only out of our concern that, in time to come, your children might say to our children, ‘What have you to do with the ETERNAL, the God of Israel?" (Joshua 22:24)
At this point, the story takes a dramatic turn.
Joshua and the people suspected that the eastern tribes wanted to separate themselves geographically and religiously. In reality, Gad and Reuben were suffering from a fear of alienation. They understood that now that their shared military burden had ended, geographic distance could gradually erode emotional and spiritual belonging.
“So we decided to provide for ourselves by building an altar—not for burnt offerings or sacrifices, but as a witness between you and us, and between the generations to come…” (Joshua 22:26–27)
In the Torah, we are familiar with the phrase “in time to come, a child of yours asks you” (Exodus,13:14) .. We remember the past in order to explain the present. The tribes of Gad and Reuben do the opposite: they shape the present in order to safeguard the future.
Their enormous altar was not a ritual object but a monument—a visual bridge intended to remind future generations on both sides of the Jordan: We are one people. We share common values. We belong to the same story.
We are living through a period of painful, profound, and often bitter divisions within Israeli society. We find ourselves obsessively preoccupied with the questions of the present: Who is right and who is wrong? Who contributes more and who bears the burden? Who is winning the battle over public consciousness and who is losing?
This dynamic consumes our energy and narrows our vision to the here and now.
But the great altar of the two-and-a-half tribes, built immediately after the conquest battles had ended, invites us to pause and lift our eyes beyond the immediate horizon. It compels us to ask the most frightening question of all: What will remain of our connection on the day after? After our arguments have ended? Who and what will we be to one another?
The tribes of Gad and Reuben teach us a dramatic lesson in long-term thinking. They were not concerned only with what their contemporaries, those who had fought alongside them, would think. They cast their eyes generations ahead. With deep reverence and concern, they asked what the children of both sides would say to one another twenty, fifty, or one hundred years later, when geographic distance, and perhaps ideological distance as well, had taken its toll.
The tribes of Gad and Reuben did not build an altar to resolve the dispute of their own day. They built it so that the dispute would not become the only story told by future generations. They did not construct a physical bridge for the present; they built a bridge of memory. Their greatest concern was that their grandchildren would not inherit estrangement and disconnection.
From their actions, we learn a profound truth: belonging is not an inheritance we receive from our parents. It is a creation that we pass on to our children. It requires effort. It requires intentional design. And it requires active commitment.
This is what true leadership looks like.
Leadership is not measured solely by the ability to solve immediate crises, nor is it measured by the ability to win the argument of the moment and defeat one's opponents.
True leadership is measured by its deep responsibility for what that argument will bequeath to the next generation. It understands that the most important question is not how today’s conflict ends, but what story it leaves behind for tomorrow.
There will always be disagreements among us; that is the nature of a people. The great question we must carry home with us is this: Alongside our disagreements, will we also pass on estrangement to our children? Or will we know, even in the midst of conflict, how to build the altars, monuments, and testimonies that remind them that ultimately we all belong to the same story—and that each of us depends on the memory and the life of the other?
Shabbat Shalom.
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Rabbi Rivi Dror is rabbi of the Beit Tefilah Israeli congregation and board member of Rabbis for Human Rights. She lives in Pardes Hanna and is the mother of two daughters, Naomi and Ziv-Aviv.
The tribes of Gad and Reuben, who possess vast herds of livestock, ask to remain on the eastern side of the Jordan River, a region well suited to raising their flocks.
Moses is appalled. To him, their request reflects concern for their own interests and poses a serious threat to communal solidarity. His sharp rebuke echoes powerfully in Israeli society today: “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here?” (Numbers, 32:6)
The crisis is resolved only when they commit themselves to leading the troops to combat, fighting alongside the other tribes until the conquest is complete. Moses relents and agrees that the tribes of Gad and Reuben may build towns for their families and enclosures for their livestock, provided that they first lead the way in helping the rest of Israel secure its inheritance.
Did they keep their promise?
In the Book of Joshua, we learn that the two-and-a-half tribes (the half-tribe of Manasseh later joined them and shared in the military campaign) indeed honored their commitment. They fought shoulder to shoulder with the rest of Israel for many years, and only after the wars had ended did Joshua release them to return to their homes across the Jordan.
All’s well that ends well—or almost.
The Book of Joshua tells us that on their journey home, they do something strange: they build on the banks of the Jordan “a great conspicuous altar.” (Joshua 22:10).
This act—like their original request to settle east of the Jordan River—is carried out unilaterally. Once again, it arouses deep suspicion and discomfort among the rest of the people. When Joshua and the Israelites hear about it, their reaction is immediate and severe. Just as Moses had earlier, they interpret the move as an act of rebellion, a betrayal, and an attempt to divide the nation religiously and politically, since sacrifices were permitted only on the altar at the Tabernacle in Shiloh. A delegation led by the zealous Phinehas is sent to investigate.
Then comes the startling explanation offered by the tribes of Gad and Reuben.
They had not built the altar in order to offer sacrifices. They built it out of profound anxiety about the future:
"We did this thing only out of our concern that, in time to come, your children might say to our children, ‘What have you to do with the ETERNAL, the God of Israel?" (Joshua 22:24)
At this point, the story takes a dramatic turn.
Joshua and the people suspected that the eastern tribes wanted to separate themselves geographically and religiously. In reality, Gad and Reuben were suffering from a fear of alienation. They understood that now that their shared military burden had ended, geographic distance could gradually erode emotional and spiritual belonging.
“So we decided to provide for ourselves by building an altar—not for burnt offerings or sacrifices, but as a witness between you and us, and between the generations to come…” (Joshua 22:26–27)
In the Torah, we are familiar with the phrase “in time to come, a child of yours asks you” (Exodus,13:14) .. We remember the past in order to explain the present. The tribes of Gad and Reuben do the opposite: they shape the present in order to safeguard the future.
Their enormous altar was not a ritual object but a monument—a visual bridge intended to remind future generations on both sides of the Jordan: We are one people. We share common values. We belong to the same story.
We are living through a period of painful, profound, and often bitter divisions within Israeli society. We find ourselves obsessively preoccupied with the questions of the present: Who is right and who is wrong? Who contributes more and who bears the burden? Who is winning the battle over public consciousness and who is losing?
This dynamic consumes our energy and narrows our vision to the here and now.
But the great altar of the two-and-a-half tribes, built immediately after the conquest battles had ended, invites us to pause and lift our eyes beyond the immediate horizon. It compels us to ask the most frightening question of all: What will remain of our connection on the day after? After our arguments have ended? Who and what will we be to one another?
The tribes of Gad and Reuben teach us a dramatic lesson in long-term thinking. They were not concerned only with what their contemporaries, those who had fought alongside them, would think. They cast their eyes generations ahead. With deep reverence and concern, they asked what the children of both sides would say to one another twenty, fifty, or one hundred years later, when geographic distance, and perhaps ideological distance as well, had taken its toll.
The tribes of Gad and Reuben did not build an altar to resolve the dispute of their own day. They built it so that the dispute would not become the only story told by future generations. They did not construct a physical bridge for the present; they built a bridge of memory. Their greatest concern was that their grandchildren would not inherit estrangement and disconnection.
From their actions, we learn a profound truth: belonging is not an inheritance we receive from our parents. It is a creation that we pass on to our children. It requires effort. It requires intentional design. And it requires active commitment.
This is what true leadership looks like.
Leadership is not measured solely by the ability to solve immediate crises, nor is it measured by the ability to win the argument of the moment and defeat one's opponents.
True leadership is measured by its deep responsibility for what that argument will bequeath to the next generation. It understands that the most important question is not how today’s conflict ends, but what story it leaves behind for tomorrow.
There will always be disagreements among us; that is the nature of a people. The great question we must carry home with us is this: Alongside our disagreements, will we also pass on estrangement to our children? Or will we know, even in the midst of conflict, how to build the altars, monuments, and testimonies that remind them that ultimately we all belong to the same story—and that each of us depends on the memory and the life of the other?
Shabbat Shalom.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Rivi Dror is rabbi of the Beit Tefilah Israeli congregation and board member of Rabbis for Human Rights. She lives in Pardes Hanna and is the mother of two daughters, Naomi and Ziv-Aviv.