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Hukkat

Today’s Wall Street Journal features an interview with veteran New York Democratic political consultant Hank Sheinkopf, discussing the recent mayoral primary in our nation’s largest city. Sheinkopf’s analysis of Zohran Mamdani’s victory over Andrew Cuomo attributes the ascendance of the self-proclaimed democratic socialist who called for the globalization of the Intifada to a young generation of voters who are “white and not poor, but middle-to-high income…the most pampered generation in the history of the world, [who have] eaten more regularly than any other generation. They’ve never had a tough day..they can’t buy an apartment. But they can buy a $9 latte, and a $100 dinner.”

The picture Sheinkopf paints of voters in the Democratic mayoral primary some ten days ago calls to mind an incident in our parasha today. In many ways, the generation of desert wandering was not exactly drinking $9 lattes, but they were not exactly lacking either. When Miriam dies and the B’nai Yisrael complain that they have no water, God gives them water. When the Canaanite king of Arad heard that the Israelites were coming and captured some of them, the Israelites cry out to God and God delivers the Canaanites into their hands. But in this week’s parasha, their lives of entitlement come to an end. When they complain about the mann, God has clearly had enough. Their frustrating complaint goes as follows:

וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר הָעָ֗ם בֵּֽאלֹהִים֮ וּבְמֹשֶׁה֒ לָמָ֤ה הֶֽעֱלִיתֻ֙נוּ֙ מִמִּצְרַ֔יִם לָמ֖וּת בַּמִּדְבָּ֑ר כִּ֣י אֵ֥ין לֶ֙חֶם֙ וְאֵ֣ין מַ֔יִם וְנַפְשֵׁ֣נוּ קָ֔צָה בַּלֶּ֖חֶם הַקְּלֹקֵֽל׃

the people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food.”

The divine response to this further complaining is to send fiery serpents, neḥashim serafim, against the people. Amidst this scourge, the Israelites call out to God and ask Moses to intercede. Moses builds a copper—or, perhaps, bronze—seraf figure and puts it on a standard; when the Israelites look at the figure, they recover. Similar to and perhaps an inspiration for the Rod of Asclepius which inspires our modern symbol for medicine, the seraf seems to have served some sort of healing function—the Mishna explains in Rosh Hashana that when the Israelites looked at the seraf, their faith in God was restored and God healed them.

There is an important difference between the first two trials and the this third one the Israelites face in our parasha: the lack of water and the threat of the king of Arad garnered an immediate response—after what seems to be a minimum of suffering, God came to the rescue of the Israelites. But the neḥashim serafim made a significant impact—the Torah tells us, וַיָּ֥מׇת עַם־רָ֖ב מִיִּשְׂרָאֵֽל—“many of the Israelites died.”

The story Hank Sheinkopf tells of young New Yorkers and the story of the B’nai Yisrael up until the scourge of the neḥashim serafim stand in stark contrast to the hardscrabble life of Sheinkopf himself. The political consultant is a self-made man born to a 15-year-old mother and an abusive 19-year-old father and who spent years in foster care. He worked for four years as a policeman, and after an incident in a bar where he nearly shot a man who attempted to pull a gun on him, Sheinkopf left the force and eventually started a political consultancy. Reading Sheinkopf’s tale, I could not help but think of the 14^th century North African historian Ibn Khaldūn, whose Muqaddima or Prolegomenon to History gives us a philosophy of history. Societies, Ibn Khaldūn writes, are shaped by their environment. The desolate desert of North Africa, he argues, forged in the 11^th century a popular movement among the Berbers called the al-Moravids. The al-Moravids were strong and motivated, and deeply religiously committed. They saw their brethren in Spain, their richer neighbor to the north, as morally and politically soft, spending their time writing poetry and drinking wine, and even paying tribute to Christian overlords. The al-Moravids then rose up, crossed the Straits of Gibraltar and conquered the south of Spain. Yet a generation later, writes Ibn Khaldūn, amidst their success in conquering the land, the al-Moravids had become soft. A second wave of Berbers, these called the al-Moḥads, would follow in the footsteps of the al-Moravids, coming up from the desert of Morocco and crossing the Straits of Gibraltar. Seizing control from the economically successful but morally and politically soft children of the al-Moravids, the al-Moḥads would bring a new religious discipline to the south of Spain. And so, writes Ibn Khaldūn, the conditions and customs of luxury are the downfall of moral and political commitment, as character is forged in the fires of adversity. And, as Sheinkopf would seem to tell it, what Ibn Khaldūn would apply to entire societies applies no less to the individual.

Fourteen centuries before Ibn Khaldūn, Philo of Alexandria looks at our parasha with similar eyes. In his Allegorical Interpretations, Philo points out that God chooses the neḥashim serafim carefully—the figure of the serpent here, in the Book of Numbers, calls to mind the serpent in the story of the Garden of Eden and Eve’s sin of eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. And if there ever was a place free of adversity, it was the Garden of Eden. Thus, the serpent that bites—that is, the symbol of giving in to temptation, is cured by the bronze serpent Moses fashions. Philo writes, “for if the mind that has been bitten by pleasure, that is by the serpent which was sent to Eve, shall have strength to behold the beauty of temperance, that is to say, the serpent made by Moses in a manner affecting the soul, and to behold God himself through the medium of the serpent, it shall live.”

Do we need adversity to be strong? If we haven’t faced it, do we seek it out—as Sheinkopf imagines that New Yorkers might be doing? I don’t know. But I do know that when we lose sight of the gifts we have been given, we can fall victim to our own weakness. Writing in the 19^th century, Rav Shimson Rafael Hirsch explained that the serpents were always there, but God had simply protected the Israelites from them. Everyday life, he writes, can cause us to miss the “great lot” of God’s gifts “along whose narrow edge our entire life’s path runs”. Rav Hirsch essentially argues that God pulls back the curtain for a moment and, amidst their suffering, the Israelites realized everything that they had.

I don’t know how the mayoral election will play out in New York—if I did, I would bet the farm on the predictive markets. But I do have admiration for individuals who have overcome great obstacles to do good in this world. And in moments when we face adversity, I trust that there are opportunities for us to appreciate what we have and to grow, together.

Today’s Wall Street Journal features an interview with veteran New York political consultant Hank Sheinkopf, analyzing the recent mayoral primary in our nation’s largest city. He reflects on the surprising success of Zohran Mamdani, a self-proclaimed democratic socialist who has called for the globalization of the Intifada, and who defeated Andrew Cuomo. Sheinkopf attributes this political shift to a younger generation of voters who are, in his words, “white and not poor, but middle-to-high income…the most pampered generation in the history of the world, [who have] eaten more regularly than any other generation. They’ve never had a tough day... they can’t buy an apartment. But they can buy a $9 latte, and a $100 dinner.”

The portrait Sheinkopf paints calls to mind an incident in our parasha. The Israelites in the wilderness weren’t drinking designer lattes, but they weren’t destitute either. When Miriam dies and the people complain that there is no water, God gives them water. When a Canaanite king captures some Israelites, they cry out—and God delivers them. But in this week’s parasha, their complaints cross a line. When they grumble about the mann, God’s response shifts dramatically.

Their complaint goes like this:

וַיְדַבֵּר הָעָם בֵּא-לֹהִים וּבְמֹשֶׁה לָמָה הֶעֱלִיתֻנוּ מִמִּצְרַיִם לָמוּת בַּמִּדְבָּר כִּי אֵין לֶחֶם וְאֵין מַיִם וְנַפְשֵׁנוּ קָצָה בַּלֶּחֶם הַקְּלֹקֵל

“The people spoke against God and against Moses: Why did you bring us up from Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food.”

This isn’t a cry for help—it’s disdain. The gift of mann, once seen as miraculous, is now “miserable food.” They’re not starving; they’re spiritually bored. And that is the turning point.

In response, God sends fiery serpents—neḥashim serafim—among the people. Many die. Only then do the Israelites repent, asking Moses to intercede. He builds a bronze serpent on a staff, and when the people look at it, they are healed. The Mishnah in Rosh Hashanah teaches that it wasn’t the serpent itself that healed them, but rather that the people looked upward, directing their hearts toward God.

Notice the contrast: in the earlier episodes, God responds swiftly. Here, the suffering is deeper, and the healing more symbolic. Why? Because this time, the people aren’t physically endangered—they’re spiritually depleted.

The modern dynamic Sheinkopf describes—the dissatisfaction of a generation blessed with abundance—mirrors this biblical pattern. What we see in both cases is a kind of spiritual malaise that emerges not from lack, but from comfort taken for granted. A sense of entitlement, even when conditions are stable, can give way to contempt.

Sheinkopf himself is no stranger to adversity. He’s a self-made man: born to a 15-year-old mother and an abusive father, raised in foster care, a former police officer who left the force after nearly being killed in a bar incident. He rebuilt his life and career through sheer resilience. Reading his story, I was reminded of the 14th-century North African historian Ibn Khaldūn.

In his Muqaddima, an introduction to his history of the premodern world, Ibn Khaldūn offers a theory of history rooted in adversity. Harsh environments, he argues, produce strong, committed people. He gives the example of the Berbers of North Africa. In the 11^th century, a religious movement called the al-Moravids emerged from the deserts of Morocco. They viewed their wealthy neighbors in Spain as morally soft—complacent, indulgent, and paying tribute to Christian rulers. The Berbers swept across the Strait of Gibraltar and conquered the region. But a generation later, success softened them, too. Another wave of desert warriors—the al-Moḥads—rose up and repeated the cycle. Ibn Khaldūn’s message is clear: luxury erodes resolve; strength is forged in adversity.

What Ibn Khaldūn observed in societies, Sheinkopf applies to individuals. And Philo of Alexandria, writing 14 centuries earlier, applies it to the soul. In his Allegorical Interpretations, Philo sees the serpents in our parasha as deliberate symbols. The serpent calls back to Eden, to temptation and moral weakness. And Moses’ bronze serpent offers healing—but not just physical healing. Philo writes: “for if the mind that has been bitten by pleasure, that is by the serpent which was sent to Eve, shall have strength to behold the beauty of temperance, that is to say, the serpent made by Moses in a manner affecting the soul, and to behold God himself through the medium of the serpent, it shall live.” In other words, gazing at the serpent is an act of self-confrontation. Healing begins when we see clearly what has wounded us—not the serpent, but our own surrender to ease and temptation.

Do we need adversity in order to grow? And if we haven’t faced it, do we sometimes seek it out? Sheinkopf seems to think so. I’m not sure. But I do know this: when we lose sight of our blessings, we often stumble.

Writing in the 19th century, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that the serpents were always present in the desert. God had simply protected the people from them—until now. Everyday life, he writes, can cause us to miss “the great lot” of God's gifts, “along whose narrow edge our entire life’s path runs.” In other words, the Israelites were never without danger—but they were never without protection either. Only when that protection is lifted do they realize what they had.

I don’t know how the mayoral election will play out—if I did, I’d bet the farm on PredictIt or Kalshi. But I do know that people who overcome adversity often emerge with greater clarity and strength. And in moments when we face difficulty—whether political, personal, or spiritual—there is an opportunity not just to endure, but to grow. And to rediscover what we’ve had all along.