Each year, as we approach Shavuot, we find ourselves reading Parashat Bamidbar. The juxtaposition is not coincidental. The Midrash explicitly states: “Why was the Torah given in the desert? To teach that just as the desert is ownerless, so too, one must make oneself “Hefker”—ownerless and humble—in order to acquire Torah.”

The desert is both a symbol of humility and of inner stillness. The noise of ego, distraction, and self-importance must be silenced. The Rambam writes that one who seeks the proper path must sometimes withdraw from the city and dwell in solitude—not to escape people, but to quiet the soul enough to hear.

We do not go to “Sinai” in the city. We do not receive Torah in a place of comfort or noise. We go to the desert—an empty and silent place. A place where everything external is stripped away, and what remains is only essence.

Yet Parashat Bamidbar opens not with silence, but with names and structure. God commands Moshe: “Se’u et rosh kol adat Bnei Yisrael… bemispar shemot” — “Count the heads of the entire assembly of Israel… by the number of names.” Each person is counted individually, by name, by tribe, by family. The Torah emphasizes “shem“—identity, distinction, individuality.

Here lies a profound paradox: the desert demands “Bittul”—self-nullification—while the census affirms “Tzurah”—our unique spiritual form. At Har Sinai, we hear the same voice of God, but the Midrash teaches it was heard by each person according to their capacity. The voice was One; the reception was many.

The Rabbi of Slonim writes that the avodah of Sefirat HaOmer is to refine the character of each individual so they can become a vessel for Kabbalat HaTorah. Torah is given to all Am Yisrael, but it must be received by individuals who have prepared their own hearts. This is the deeper connection between Bamidbar and Shavuot: Torah descends only to those who have both erased themselves like a desert and uplifted themselves like a name.

A Chassidic story brings this to life: A student once told the Kotzker Rebbe, “I feel like a desert—empty and unworthy.” The Rebbe replied, “Perfect. Now God has where to plant the Torah.” Emptiness is not a deficiency; it is the beginning of receiving. But then the Rebbe added, “Just don’t forget to water it with your tears and shape it with your deeds.”

This is our task as we stand between Bamidbar and Shavuot: to become a desert in our humility and stillness—and to stand upright as individuals who know our name, our place, and our part in Torah. When we do both, the Voice of Sinai can once again be heard—resounding not in thunder, but in the quiet spaces of a prepared heart.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Refael Cohen