The fountain and the cracked cisterns

The people stand at the edge. Forty years of sand lie behind them — forty years of putting up tents, breaking down tents, moving on. And now water glints in the depth: the Jordan. On the far side lies the land God promised. It has never been this close.

Moses stands there too. He knows something the people would rather not say aloud: he may not go along. He will see the land, from a mountain, from a distance — and die there. These, then, are his last chapters, the last pages of the book of Numbers.

And what are those last pages about? You would expect swords, battle plans, speeches. But no. They are about… promises. About a war that makes everyone unclean. About two tribes that want to stay behind already. About a list of forty-two campsites. About six cities you may run to. And about five sisters who win a lawsuit.

A strange choice? Look again. For whoever looks closely sees that all those pieces are about the same thing: about real and counterfeit. About what holds, and what leaks. Hold on to that — at the end comes an image that binds it all together.

When you promise something

'I swear it.' Have you any idea how often that is said? On the schoolyard, in a text message, with two fingers raised. I swear it, really. And usually it is forgotten the next day.

The parashah opens with exactly that: promises. A vow — in Hebrew neder — is a promise you make aloud to God. And then it says this:

'He shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth.' — Numbers 30:2

Break — the Hebrew is a big word for something simple: to treat it as if it were worth nothing. So God says: your words are not nothing. They are not air that evaporates. Why not? Because you resemble the God who made you — and He speaks, and there it stands. The whole world began with speaking. So when you say something, something really happens: you fix something, you bind yourself to something.

But notice the difference with a magic spell. With words you cannot force God to anything — that does not work, it has never worked. The only thing you can bind with a vow is yourself. Your word is not a remote control for heaven; it is a signature under your own life.

And then comes something beautiful. The chapter goes on about a young girl who lives at home and makes a vow. Her father hears it — and on that same day he may say: no, this promise goes too far, I release her. And then she is free, and God does not hold it against the girl. Why is that there? Because God knows how we are. That we sometimes speak too fast, promise too big, on an impulse. Your word is holy — and there is a safety net for hasty words. Both of them stand there, right next to each other.

'Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.' — Ecclesiastes 5:5

Take that with you: say a little less. And let stand what you say.

The war that leaves no one clean

Then comes a chapter I do not want to walk around with a wide berth, even though it is heavy. War is waged, against Midian. Why? Rewind a moment: a while earlier Midian had lured Israel into a trap — not with swords, but with a feast. Other gods, licentiousness, and the people fell for it. Thousands dead. The man who thought up that plan was called Balaam — and in this chapter he too falls.

The battle is fought, the soldiers come back. And then something happens that almost no one expects. The men who did exactly what was commanded — they may not enter the camp. Seven days they must stay outside. Wash themselves, wash their clothes, cleanse everything they have with them: what can bear fire must go through the fire, and the rest must go through the water.

Do you hear what the Torah says here, without saying it aloud? Killing makes unclean. Always. Even when it was necessary. Even when it was commanded. The Bible never pretends that violence is tough, or normal, or something you can leave cold. Whoever went through it must stand outside, for a week, and be washed — with fire and with water — before he may dwell among people again.

I will not pretend I fully understand this chapter; I do not. But this one thing stands unmistakably: God never gives violence a clean handshake. And one more thing: this was one command, at one moment, in one history. Whoever ever uses this chapter as an excuse for his own war reads it exactly backwards — for it is precisely this chapter that says even commanded violence puts you a week outside the camp.

Staying behind already

Two tribes, Reuben and Gad, have much cattle. Very much cattle. And they look around, here on this side of the river, and see: good grass, plenty of room. And they go to Moses: may we stay here? You cross over with the rest.

Listen closely to their sentence, for it gives them away. They say: here we will build folds for our cattle and cities for our children. Do you hear the order? The cattle first. The children after. One little sentence — and you look straight into their heart. What you talk about first, there your heart sits.

Moses grows angry at first, and not without cause: you are doing exactly what your fathers did, he says. When I sent men out to look at the land, they frightened the people — and all Israel stayed standing at the edge. That cost forty years. And now you want to stay standing at an edge again, while your brothers have to fight?

Then comes an agreement. You may live here — but first you go along. Not at the back: at the front. Armed, ahead of the others across the river, and you come back only when everyone has his place. And if you do not do that, Moses says, then remember this:

'… be sure your sin will find you out.' — Numbers 32:23

That is no threat from an angry God with a club. It is more sober, and precisely therefore more unsettling: what you leave crooked comes after you. As a lie catches up with you — not maybe, but guaranteed, only you never know when.

And then notice how Moses closes. He grants them their wish, but he says it like this: build cities for your children, and folds for your cattle. The same words. A different order. First the children, then the cattle. Sometimes turning around is no more than that: the same things in your life — put in the right order.

The list of all the stops

Then comes a chapter that looks like the dullest piece of the whole Bible. Really: forty-two place names in a row. They set out from here and camped there. They set out from there and camped further on. Forty-two times.

Why is that there? The answer stands above it:

'And Moses wrote their goings out according to their journeys by the commandment of the LORD.' — Numbers 33:2

By the commandment of the LORD. God wanted that list. He wanted the whole journey set down in black and white — and look for yourself: the places where it went wrong are in it too. The place of the grumbling. The place of the golden calf, not far from it. The place where Miriam died, the place where there was water and the place where there was no water. Nothing is polished away.

Do you understand what that means? Your history is allowed to exist — including the ugly parts. Precisely those. For whoever forgets where he has been, also forgets who carried him through it. A journey you write down can save you later. Remember this list; soon, at the prophet, it comes back — and then it hurts.

At the back of the chapter stands one more charge for later, for when they enter the land: break down the images. All the places where people made gods — away with them, before you go to live there. First clear out, then furnish. You cannot build a new house on a floor full of old junk.

Borders around a gift

After that God, as it were, takes a map and draws borders. Literally: from that sea to that mountain, along that river, to that city. The land is measured out — while not one Israelite has yet set a single step.

Why borders, even before it begins? Because a gift has a shape. Something without borders you cannot receive — you can only grab it, and grabbing never stops; there is always more. But an inheritance — that is what the piece of ground is called that each family gets: not because they earned it, but because they belong to the people — an inheritance has borders. And precisely through that it is really yours.

The city you may run to

Now comes perhaps the most beautiful piece of the parashah. But you must first picture something: there is no police. No court as we know it, no prison. If someone kills your brother, your family takes it up. The nearest kinsman takes the sword and goes after the killer. The Torah even has a name for him: the avenger of blood — the one who comes to demand the blood back. That is how it went, everywhere in that old world.

But now there is a problem. What if it was an accident? The Torah itself gives an example somewhere: two men chop wood together in the forest, the head of the axe flies off the handle, strikes the other — dead. No quarrel, no hatred, no plan. And yet a dead man, and yet a family in tears, and yet an avenger of blood who comes. Must that woodcutter now die too?

God says: no. And then comes His solution, and it is beautiful. Build six cities, He says, spread over the whole land, three on each side of the river — with good roads to them. Whoever has killed by accident runs there, as fast as he can. And as soon as he is inside the gate, the avenger of blood may no longer touch him. After that comes a real trial: the city listens first — was it on purpose, or was it an accident?

Now look with me at three things that happen here, for all three are remarkable.

One: a distinction is made. By accident is not the same as on purpose. That sounds obvious, but consider: the rage of an avenger does not make that distinction — he sees only his dead brother. God's order does make it. First there is looking, asking, listening — and only then judging.

Two: you cannot buy your way out. It says so literally: take no ransom for a life. No amount is good enough. A human life is not worth money — it is too dear for money. Whoever thinks everything is for sale breaks apart here: the most precious thing in God's land is on principle unbuyable.

Three — and this is the strangest: the fugitive stays living in that city… until the high priest dies. The high priest, that is the highest priest of the people: the man who once a year, on the Great Day of Atonement, went into the sanctuary with blood to make atonement for everyone. And now it says: when that man dies, then in all six cities the gates open. Everyone may go home. Free.

Why then? The text does not explain it. Let it stay strange a moment. But do shudder along a little: there apparently exists a death that opens doors. The death of the priest lets prisoners go home. Centuries later someone in the Bible writes about us — about people who take refuge in God — that we have 'fled for refuge': exactly the word for someone who runs to such a city (Hebrews 6:18). Fair is fair: that is an echo, not an explaining verse. But what an echo.

And why is all this so important to God? The chapter says it itself, at the close: shed blood defiles the land —

'Defile not therefore the land which ye shall inhabit … for I the LORD dwell among the children of Israel.' — Numbers 35:34

That is the reason. God dwells there Himself. It is His land, His house, His street. Therefore it must be clean there — and therefore there is a way for the one who became guilty without wanting to.

Five sisters and a law that listens

And then the end of the book. No trumpets, no battle. A lawsuit — part two.

About ten chapters earlier five sisters stood up, the daughters of a man called Zelophehad. Their father had died in the wilderness, without a son. And according to the rules of that time only sons got land. So those five asked: does our father's name now simply disappear? Do we get nothing, only because we are girls? And God said to Moses: they are right. Give them their father's inheritance. The rule was changed.

Now, in the very last chapter, the uncles of their tribe come with the follow-up question: fine, but if those girls later marry someone from another tribe, does not their land then move along with them for good to that other tribe? Does it still add up then? And again there is listening. Again the rule is refined: the daughters marry within their own tribe — they chose husbands there themselves, by the way — and so everything stays whole: their inheritance and the map of the land.

Do you understand what happens here? God's order is no concrete wall you can only walk into. There may be asking. There is listening. And the answer does not make the order looser, but more precise. So the book of Numbers ends: not with the clash of weapons, but with five women, a good question, and a law that can move along without breaking.

The cistern that leaks

With every parashah a second reading belongs in the synagogue, from the prophets — the haftarah. This week that is Jeremiah. And Jeremiah gives us the image I spoke of at the beginning: the image that binds it all together.

First you must know how you got water in that land. There is no tap. Often there is no river nearby either. You have two possibilities. Either you have the good fortune of a spring: water that comes up by itself from the depth, always fresh, always cool, always flowing — 'living water' they called that, water that lives and moves. Or you go hewing: for days you cut out a basin in the rock, a cistern, smear the walls shut with lime — and then wait for rain. And hope. For lime cracks. And one crack is enough: the water seeps away into the rock, and when you come to your cistern in the hot summer, you find mud.

Now Jeremiah. God looks at His people and says: you have done two things wrong. Two — not one:

'… they have forsaken me the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water.' — Jeremiah 2:13

Do you hear the order? First you let go of the fountain. Then you go hewing — for thirst remains, some water must come. And then it cracks. It is the same rhythm every time: let go, make it yourself, leak.

And a little earlier in this chapter stands the bitterest sentence of all. They walked after emptiness, God says — the word is hevel: vapour, breath, emptiness, the same word with which Ecclesiastes calls everything 'vanity and emptiness' — they 'walked after vanity, and are become vain'. Read that again. You become what you chase. Whoever follows emptiness becomes empty himself. Whoever follows something full becomes filled. That is no threat; that is simply how people work.

And then God asks a question that hurts. No one, He says, asked any longer: where is the LORD, who brought us up out of Egypt — who led us through the wilderness, through that land of deserts and pits, of drought and the shadow of death? No one asked it any more.

And now you understand why that 'boring' list in Numbers 33 is there. God had the whole journey written down — all forty-two stops, the failed ones too — precisely so that this would never happen. That list was the medicine against this forgetting. But a medicine only works if you take it. They had stopped reading it.

It runs further still in the chapter: people who say to a block of wood 'thou art my father', and to a stone 'thou hast brought me forth'. To wood. And then when distress comes, they cry to that same wood: arise, save us! And God asks, almost mockingly and almost sorrowfully at once: where then are your gods that you made yourself? Let them arise, if they can. You had a god for every city, Judah. And it stayed silent.

So the reading could end — in that silence. But it ends otherwise. The synagogue reads one verse further, right at the close, and that verse is an outstretched hand:

'Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me, My father, thou art the guide of my youth?' — Jeremiah 3:4

From 'wood, thou art my father' to 'my Father' — to the Living One. That is the whole distance that must be bridged. And apparently He is simply waiting for it: for that one word.

Leaves without figs

And then the third reading of this week, from the Gospel. Jesus is on His way to Jerusalem. It is morning, He is hungry. In the distance stands a fig tree, full of leaf.

Now you must know one thing about fig trees: with a fig tree the fruit comes roughly together with the leaf, sometimes even earlier. A tree full of leaves therefore really calls from afar: come here, there is something to be had! Jesus comes to it — and finds only leaf. Green, full, promising — and empty. The tree advertises something it does not have. And Jesus says: no one will ever eat of you again.

A strange story? Mark tells it on purpose as a sandwich: first the tree, then the temple, then the tree again — the next morning withered to the root. And with a sandwich the middle belongs to the outside: you must look through the tree at the temple.

For what does Jesus find in the temple? Leaf. Very much leaf: trade, money that jingles, doves in cages, tables full of coins, the shouting of merchants — activity enough, it looks alive. But the fruit? Jesus overturns the tables, drives the trade out, and says two Bible texts in one breath:

'… My house shall be called of all nations the house of prayer? but ye have made it a den of thieves.' — Mark 11:17

That second piece, that 'den of thieves', comes from somewhere — from Jeremiah. The same prophet as our haftarah, a few pages further on. And notice: a den of thieves is not the place where thieves rob. It is the cave where they hide afterwards. Safe, they think; here no one gets us. So, Jeremiah said back then already, you use the temple: go your own way through the week — and then run to the house of God as if you are automatically safe there. The house as a lucky charm. As a hiding cave. As… a cracked cistern of stone.

And Jesus? Notice what He does not do: He does not abolish the temple. His zeal gives the house back to what it was meant for: prayer. And then that little word only Mark has kept: for all nations. The place where the trade stood was precisely the court where people from outside Israel were allowed to come and pray. Their very place had been filled up with stalls. Jesus makes room — for everyone who seeks.

The next morning they pass the tree again: withered, to the root. And then Jesus says something you do not expect at all. No 'so it goes with bad people'. But: have faith in God. Pray — and believe that you receive. And then this:

'And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any…' — Mark 11:25

Forgive. Do you remember, from this morning — the avenger of blood who ran, and the city that had to stop him? Jesus here is really saying: that avenger runs around in your breast too. After the one who did you wrong. Let him stop. Not because it was not bad — it may have been very bad. But because a person cannot live with a heart that is on the hunt day and night. There is a city to take refuge in; be one yourself too.

All of it side by side

Now lay it side by side, everything from this week.

Words you had better let stand — and a safety net for words that were too fast. A war that puts even the winners a week outside the camp, because violence is never clean. Two tribes who learn that you do not put your cattle before your children, and that you do not sit down before you have crossed over together. A list of forty-two campsites — against forgetting. Borders around a gift. Six cities you may run to, free, for a life cannot be paid with money — and a priest whose death opens all the gates. Five sisters and a law that listens. A fountain and a cistern with a crack. A tree full of leaf without a single fig. A house full of trade that becomes a house of prayer again, for all nations. And a Father who asks whether you will simply call Him Father again.

I do not know which image catches on with you. It need not be all of them at once; one image is enough for a week.

But one question I give you. Where have you — quietly, without anyone noticing — hewn out your own cistern? That one thing you draw your water from apart from God: that account, that circle of friends, that achievement, that screen, that one thing of which you think: as long as I have this, I will be all right. And do you dare to look whether there is already a crack at the bottom?

Look, by all means. You need not be afraid of what you find. For this is the news of this whole reading: the fountain has not closed. It still flows. It has always flowed.

Read it over, think about it — and tell me freely where you would place it differently than I.