Bitter Water and Sweet Surrender

Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1–22:1

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT

Parashat Chukat is one of the most enigmatic portions in the entire Torah. It seems to flow with contradiction: it begins with a mysterious ordinance, introduces a miraculous yet perplexing deliverance, and ends in what feels like a strange and tragic justice. Midrash teaches us that hidden within these paradoxes are holy lessons, if we’re willing to live with the mystery.

One way to remember the surreal themes of this portion is with a simple mnemonic: Three Children of Amram, Two Strange Cows, and a Rock with a Perpetual Stream.

Let’s begin with the two strange cows. Chukat opens with the decree of the Red Heifer—parah adumah—called not just a law of Torah, but the decree of the Torah. Why such a strange ritual? A completely red, unblemished cow, never yoked, is burned and its ashes used to purify those who have come in contact with the dead. But in a twist that reflects the whole spiritual tension of this parasha, those who prepare the waters of purification become impure themselves.

It makes no sense. And perhaps that’s the point.

The Sages tell us that this is the ultimate chok—a decree from God that defies rationality. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, when questioned by a Roman official about this rite, offered a quasi-scientific response about removing unclean spirits. But when his own disciples questioned him, he admitted the truth: “The dead do not defile, and the ashes do not purify. It is a decree of the King of Kings. We are not to question.”

Still, the sages tried to interpret. One tradition connects the Red Heifer to the Golden Calf. Just as a mother cleans up after her child, so the red heifer atones for the sin of the golden calf. And why a female animal? Precisely because she represents care, nurture, and sacrificial purity—responding to an earlier failure with a new redemptive act.

This is not the only paradox in the portion. The Talmud in tractate Niddah reflects that just as Torah forbids blood as food, yet a mother’s blood becomes milk to nourish her child, so too the process of purification is not always clean. Sometimes, holiness requires us to step into the mess. Sometimes, like the priests who prepare the ashes, we must become defiled in order to bring healing to others.

That brings us to the three children of Amram: Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.

Numbers 20 begins with Miriam’s death and ends with the fateful moment when Moses and Aaron strike the rock at Meribah—an act that costs them entry into the Promised Land (Num 20:12). These three siblings are called parnassim tovim, good and faithful leaders. Yet their lives reflect the paradox of the Red Heifer: they endure personal loss, sacrifice, and even divine rebuke, not for their own sin alone, but also to serve as atonement for the people.

The Midrash teaches that Yocheved, their mother, outlives them all. Since her children were the spiritual parents of Israel, it’s as if she becomes the matriarch to 600,000 souls who enter the land. There’s something deeply moving in this image—of lives lived not for personal fulfillment but for national redemption.

Then we come to the rock with the perpetual stream.

The aggadic tradition tells us that in Miriam’s merit, a miraculous rock followed the Israelites, gushing fresh water throughout their journey in the wilderness. It wasn’t just a miracle—it was a companion. A symbol of divine grace, unearned and ever-present. This rock, touched by Miriam’s faith and the echo of the Nile where she placed her baby brother, flowed with twelve streams—one for each tribe. Trees and flowers grew along its banks. Wherever Israel went, it followed.

When Miriam died, the water stopped. And in their thirst, the people complained bitterly. God told Moses to speak to the rock—but instead, Moses struck it. Twice. The sages say that only a drop came out at first. And when Moses struck again, it gushed blood. The people cried, “God is no longer with us!” Even the rock cried out, “Why have you struck me?” God wept too, saying, “You were meant to speak gently and lead with compassion. You were meant to teach faith, not provoke doubt.”

And then God healed the rock and commanded it to bring forth water again. The blood on the desert sand turned into roses, and the water reflected their color.

The Apostle Paul, Rav Shaul, seems to echo this tradition when he writes: “They all drank from the same spiritual drink, for they drank from the spiritual rock that accompanied them—and that rock was Messiah” (1 Corinthians 10:4).

Just as water flowed from the rock, Paul sees in Messiah the ultimate paradox: the stone rejected becomes the source of life. God brings purification through a suffering servant, blessing through blood, resurrection through surrender.

This portion, with all its riddles, asks us to trust that God’s ways are not always meant to be deciphered. Like Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, we may give a polite answer to the world—but among ourselves, we embrace the mystery.

And yet, we are not passive. We act. We serve. We do mitzvot, even when we don’t understand them fully. Because through them, we draw near. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it best: “Perhaps the essential message of Judaism is that in doing the finite, we may perceive the infinite.”

It is in these strange, often small acts—kindness, service, observance, forgiveness—that we encounter the divine. We don’t have to solve the mystery to stand in awe of it. We just have to live faithfully within it.

So let us not seek only to understand. Let us also do. Let us speak to the rock rather than strike it. Let us draw sweetness from the bitter, water from stone, and light from ashes.

And may the Rock of our salvation, the One who follows us even when we forget him, continue to lead us with mystery, mercy, and grace.