Oscillating Growth
Naso 5785
Have you ever met someone who is always reaching higher?
My friend Moe Mernick is one of those people. He lives with clear direction, focused mission, and unwavering dedication to growth. In many of his motivational talks, he invites the crowd to raise their hands as high as they can. Then, he pauses and asks them to reach even higher. Almost without exception, they do. His point is simple but profound: even when we think we have reached our limit, we can always stretch further.
That message captures exactly the idea I want to explore here.
Last week, we explored how Parshas Bamidbar begins with stillness, the spiritual midbar. The desert of the soul is where everything familiar is stripped away, leaving a person alone with themselves and Hashem. Bamidbar is a parsha of placement rather than progress. Every individual is assigned a spot, a role, a defined position within the camp. All of this occurs before there is any sense of motion or momentum.
This week, in Parshas Naso, a shift starts as we begin to climb. The counting becomes purposeful and the tasks are transformative. As the Leviim carry the vessels of the mishkan, they elevate the avodah itself through their song. The Nazir chooses limits in order to rise beyond them. The Sotah faces brokenness and emerges with a new clarity. Even the repetitive korbanos of the Nesi’im become individualized, dignified, and lifted. Slowly, we start to move inward and upward. The structure begins to breathe and the stillness begins to sing. (If this sounds poetic, it’s because it is)
Parshas Naso is the longest parsha in the Torah and includes a wide range of topics, encompassing eighteen distinct mitzvos. Despite this breadth, Rabbeinu Bachya, in his introduction to the parsha, chooses to focus on the role of the Leviim.
He explains that their function was never limited to carrying the vessels of the Mishkan. Their role was to uplift the entire avodah through song and joy. In addition to count or carry, the word “naso” means to elevate. Mitzvos are more than technical procedures or external duties. They are profoundly spiritual actions that necessitate an internal feeling of happiness. This joy is so essential that it becomes a mitzvah in its own right. The Leviim would sing during the bringing of the korbanos in order to awaken this internal joy. Joy is what transforms the functional korban into true avodah. Their designated age range, from thirty to fifty years old, was selected because it reflects the period of greatest physical and vocal strength. This ensured that their song could uplift the korbanos, as well as the people themselves, and ultimately the Shechinah that rested among them.
Rav Nachman of Breslov teaches1 that shirah, or song, is more than an emotional expression, rather it is the glue of creation, the force that binds separated things together. Elsewhere, he notes that Levi, whose name is associated with din (judgment, structure), is the one who introduces song into the world. Leah names him by saying, “This time my husband will become attached to me”2, using the word yilaveh. This expression hints at the unique capacity of melody to create connection between people, between soul and body, and even between heaven and earth.
My rebbe, Rav Gerzi, once taught that because Levi represents din, the power of music doesn’t arise from chaos. It arises from precision and emerges from defined notes and set rhythm. What could be scattered or disjointed becomes harmony once each element is placed correctly. That is the work of the Leviim. They take the structured vessels, the defined avodah, and breathe music into them. Through the boundaries of din, they give birth to transcendent joy.3
There are moments in life when a niggun can elevate a person beyond the present moment. It can lift one into a more expansive, spiritual realm. One example is the chuppah. The days leading up to a wedding are filled with countless details, emotions, and distractions. It is difficult to fully access the meaning of what is about to happen. The music played under the chuppah brings us there. It shifts the atmosphere. It carries us into a higher space.
From that elevated place, we begin to understand our lives from a broader perspective. We are able to glimpse a vision of our future. The niggun propels us forward.
In the Beis HaMikdash, the same power of niggun was present. Every korban was accompanied by the song of the Leviim. That song brought the one bringing the offering out of the ordinary rhythm of daily life. It lifted the soul and opened a broader spiritual vision. One came closer to the Master of the world and saw their life through a wider lens. True teshuvah occurs when a person sees the larger picture, when they understand where they drifted off course. The music helped reveal that clarity.
Chazal teach that a korban must be offered with the shirah of the Leviim, otherwise it is invalid. The song is essential.
There is another moment when a person can access that same elevated vision. The Midrash teaches that when someone experiences a troubling or frightening dream, they should perform a hatavas chalom. Today, that often involves forming a symbolic beis din of three and reciting a special tefillah. However, there is also another path. One can approach a Kohen and through the power of Birchas Kohanim, a person can nullify the lingering impact of a disturbing dream. The blessings of a Kohen carry the power to transform. They lift a person from a place of fear or constriction and allow a new kind of peace to enter.
It is significant that these moments of elevation often begin from places of constriction. Why is this the case?
Hashem gives us opportunities for growth precisely in those moments that feel tight or limited. It is within that feeling of being spiritually or emotionally constricted that a person is given the potential to expand. Those experiences become doorways and they invite us to rise.
In Kabbalistic terms, this inner movement, from limitation to expansiveness, is described through the concepts of Mochin D’Katnus and Mochin D’Gadlus, which refer to narrow and expansive states of consciousness.
Mochin D’Katnus, or constricted consciousness, is associated with the throat. This is the place in the body where the mind transitions into expression and where thought meets speech. It is a narrow channel, both physically and symbolically. The tension between understanding and articulation is most present here. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan points out that in our ordinary, everyday state, we often “think with our vocal cords.” In this condition, our thoughts remain shallow, hovering just above the surface of language. This is the essence of Katnus, a mental space in which ideas are fragmented, clarity is limited, and the connection between insight and expression feels stifled.
By contrast, Mochin D’Gadlus resides in the head. It reflects a state of expanded awareness, where perception deepens and ideas begin to flow with coherence and light. When someone learns something and feels disconnected from it, the experience remains constricted. The material has not yet opened. However, when that same idea suddenly makes sense, when it clicks into place, when it breathes and fills the mind with clarity, that is Gadlus. It is the shift from partial understanding to full comprehension.4
One of the most accessible ways to move from Katnus to Gadlus is through shirah. Song bypasses the narrow passage of speech. It reaches the heart and the mind without detouring through intellectual analysis. It doesn’t argue or persuade, rather it simply opens. It creates space where space had previously been closed.
Rav Yitzchak Meir Morgenstern explains5 that these two mental states are also reflected in the names of Hashem. Mochin D’Gadlus corresponds to the four-letter name of Hashem, the Shem Havayah. This name is associated with expansion, compassion, and infinite flow. Each time consciousness ascends to a new level of awareness, a new expression of Havayah is revealed. It is a divine unfolding, a revelation of deeper possibility.
In contrast, Mochin D’Katnus is represented by the name Elokim, which embodies contraction, judgment, and containment. It is the Divine name that restricts in order to define.
When a person feels emotionally stuck, spiritually heavy, or locked into repetitive patterns, it may be that they are experiencing life through the lens of Elokim-consciousness. This is the domain of rules and boundaries, where the mind narrows and enthusiasm fades. However, the path of the parsha, like the structure of the Mishkan itself, guides us toward something larger. It leads us to discover the presence of Havayah within the structure. The expansiveness is hidden within it, waiting to be revealed.
I find it deeply compelling that throughout Parshas Naso, this theme appears again and again. If one looks closely, the journey of the parsha reveals a pattern, like an oscillating path of spiritual ascent, rising through moments of constriction until reaching transcendence.
The parsha opens with the words Naso es rosh—“Lift the head.” The pasuk reads almost as a directive to ascend inwardly. This was more than a simple count, It was an elevation of da’as, a call to rise from a constricted mindset to one of expansive awareness. The head symbolizes expanded consciousness.
However, before this elevation begins, the Torah situates us in the world of ma’aseh. The Leviim are tasked with carrying, transporting, and fulfilling defined responsibilities. This is the realm of Katnus, a space governed by structure, function, and limitation. It reflects a consciousness rooted in obedience and containment. Later, once the people enter Eretz Yisrael, the role of the Leviim transforms. As there is less of a need to be carriers, they shift to become singers, teachers, and guides. They usher others into a more expansive state. The movement is from action to awareness, from labor to meaning.
Shortly after, the parsha introduces what seems like a disjointed mitzvah: anyone who is tamei cannot remain in the camp. On the surface, this is a strict boundary, which is a symbol of exclusion, separation, and disconnection. This is another expression of Katnus. Constriction often begins in a state of confusion or spiritual disorientation. The person is cut off, outside, and distant.
Yet in defining and separating impurity, the Torah makes space for purification and return. The exclusion becomes a prelude to reentry. From outside the camp, there remains the possibility of return. The very act of distancing prepares the path for reconnection.
As a wise man once said, “distance makes the heart grow fonder”.
The story of the Sotah returns us again to a world of emotional constriction. She stands at the center of suspicion, jealousy, and betrayal. Her inner world is locked, hidden from others and perhaps even from herself. She inhabits a liminal space between guilt and innocence, truth and illusion.
The process she undergoes is public and painful. Yet it is also clarifying. If she emerges innocent, she receives a blessing of life and abundance. From a place of mistrust, she arrives at clarity. Her journey transforms emotional narrowness into deeper intimacy and understanding. This is the shift from Katnus to Gadlus.
Immediately following this, the Torah introduces the Nazir. He is the individual who declares: “I seek something higher. I will not live confined to instinct or impulse.” He limits himself—no wine, no haircuts and no exposure to impurity. At first glance, these restrictions appear constrictive, another form of Katnus. Yet there is a vital difference.
The Nazir’s limitations are chosen. They are self-directed acts of refinement. His path is one of aspiration, rather than reaction. He withdraws from certain physical pleasures in order to access something deeper within himself. At the conclusion of his nezirus, he brings a korban and shaves his head. The process resolves into openness. What began as limitation becomes transformation. The Nazir’s path reflects the rhythm of spiritual growth—through narrowing, one becomes capable of expansion.
The parsha then turns to Birkat Kohanim. The Torah introduces the bracha with the words Koh tevarachu es ha’am—“Thus shall you bless the people.” The word Koh carries significance. In the language of Chazal, it is an expression of prophecy. The meukbalim teach us that Koh represents a meeting point: a person ascends twenty-five levels, Hashem descends twenty-five, and together they meet in the middle. The Kohen gives a bracha from that space where heaven and earth converge.
This is reflected not only in the word Koh, but also in the word Kohen itself. The letters כה equal twenty-five, and the final letter ן equals fifty—hinting at the complete process of ascent, descent, and connection. The Kohen holds both movements within his name.
We call upon the Kohanim to give us a beracha, with the word Koh, because it symbolizes that meeting. The Kohen rises. Hashem responds. From that shared space, the beracha flows.
These berachos must be given with love. The Kohanim are required to hold sincere affection for the people they bless. Rav Moshe Dovid Vali even suggests that the word emor—“say”—derives from the root of amore, the Italian word for love. A true tzadik is someone whose presence makes others feel larger, not smaller. They lift those around them.
During Birkas Kohanim, the Kohanim stand with open arms and open hearts. The beracha itself follows a path of expansion. It begins with protection—Yevarechecha—a firm foundation. From there, it unfolds into grace, light, presence, and peace. Each phrase grows broader, more expansive. It is a movement from the definitive to the transcendent. The final word is Shalom—a state of total integration, the ultimate expression of Gadlus. The blessing is a direct bridge between heaven and earth, between internal constriction and divine clarity.
As mentioned, the Midrash teaches that when someone experiences a frightening dream, they should listen to Birkas Kohanim. The power of this beracha is such that it can nullify even the deepest spiritual disturbance. The presence of the Kohen, the love in his voice, and the words he speaks, all of these join together to dissolve fear and restore peace.
The parsha then discusses the korbanos brought by the Nesi’im, the leaders of each tribe. On the surface, this section appears repetitive. Each Nasi brings the exact same korban. The parsha repeats each korban in full detail. It seems uniform, constricted, almost mechanical.
Yet the Torah lists each korban separately. Each Nasi is given his own space, his own moment and his own voice. Although the external action is identical, the Torah reveals the internal individuality. This is another transformation, from sameness to uniqueness, from the appearance of uniformity to the truth of inner difference. This is yet another shift from Katnus to Gadlus.
Finally, the parsha ends with a pasuk that would perhaps be more fitting as the opening to Behaaloscha:
ובבא משה אל־אהל מועד לדבר אתו וישמע את־הקול מדבר אליו מעל הכפרת אשר על־ארן העדת מבין שני הכרבים וידבר אליו
“And when Moshe entered the Tent of Meeting to speak with Him, he heard the Voice speaking to him from above the kaporet, from between the two cherubim…”
This moment is the summit. After all the action, structure, and detail, there is the Kol Hashem. The communication is no longer external or mediated. It is intimate, direct, and sacred. Moshe hears the kol, the pure sound of divine communication. This is the state of Mochin D’Gadlus, a condition in which awareness has expanded enough to receive the voice of Hashem without distortion. From this plane, the journey continues even higher.
What becomes clear is that Katnus the necessary starting point. The narrowness is by design as preparation. Only through experiences of limitation, repetition, confusion, or emotional constriction can we begin to ascend. The movement between Mochin D’Katnus and Mochin D’Gadlus is cyclical and multidimensional.
The structure of Parshas Naso mirrors this process. Its expansive length and intricate detail may feel excessive at first, but that too is intentional. The parsha unfolds over 176 pesukim, carrying us through layers of repetition, complexity, and concealed elevation. All of this leads to the closing moment, where we find ourselves standing in the Ohel Moed, prepared to hear the Kol Hashem, not from a distance, but from within.
Rav Shlomo Katz once taught that one of the deepest forms of Katnus is the feeling that Hashem has abandoned us. We look around at the world, whether politically, nationally or spiritually, and it seems as if no one is guiding the course. There isn’t any clear leadership, nor is there a sense of direction. That feeling of absence can pull a person toward despair and this is exactly the point. That experience of distance is itself the narrow space.
Rebbe Nachman’s famous teaching, Ein ye’ush ba’olam klal, there is no despair in the world, is a spiritual directive. Despair itself is Katnus. The way through it is not through force or denial, but through perspective. To rise means to access a higher plane of awareness, one in which a person can say: Ein Od Milvado. It is a place where ego, confusion, and contraction fall away, and what remains is simple attachment to the One who never left.
Life often feels cyclical. We encounter the same struggles, the same doubts, again and again. Perhaps we truly are facing the same challenges, but it may also be that we are encountering familiar patterns on a deeper level. As we move through them with greater awareness, we find that we are not simply repeating. We are oscillating—higher, deeper, forward.
Katnus always precedes Gadlus, and Gadlus cannot emerge without first passing through Katnus.
Rav Baruch Shalom Ashlag zt’l, son of the Baal HaSulam, writes6 that when a person begins their spiritual journey, they are granted a small taste of light from above, a brief glimpse of clarity. That moment of inspiration provides direction. It makes the path feel vivid and alive. The person feels aligned with their purpose.
Then, often without warning, that clarity disappears. The person feels disoriented, perhaps even worse off than before. The instinct is to assume something has gone wrong. That they have regressed and they were pushed away.
The opposite is actually true. That first light was a gift, Isarusa D’Le’eila, an awakening from above. Its only purpose was to initiate the real work, which begins when the gift is removed. From that point forward, a person must build from below through confusion, effort, and faith. That is Isarusa D’Lesata. True expansion is not given, rather it is cultivated, and it only emerges after constriction. The initial certainty fades so we can learn how to serve without relying on it.
I once came across a powerful image, in the Torah HaOleh of the Rema. A tzaddik is compared to a palm tree. Each challenge he undergoes causes one frond to wither and fall, becoming part of the trunk. That dried frond, rather than discarded, supports the tree and helps it grow taller. A new frond emerges, and the process repeats. Every struggle becomes structure and every limitation becomes a path to ascent.
Rav Moshe Dovid Vali, in his commentary on Tehillim 126, offers a vision of redemption that echoes this very journey. He writes that when the Geulah arrives, the Jewish people will look back on exile and realize: we were like dreamers. Contrary to the association, it doesn’t refer to dreamers in the sense of hopeful visionaries, it refers to the sense of distortion. We moved through life in a fog, immersed in Mochin D’Katnus, limited awareness. The days felt repetitive, with the pain feeling arbitrary and the deeper meaning was hidden.
When the Geulah comes, we will step into Mochin D’Gadlus, a fuller da’as, a broader mind. The fog will lift and the pain will make sense. The countless moments that felt fragmented will come together. At that time we’ll experience “az yimaleh schok pinu”, the joy that follows will be simchah sheleimah—complete joy, born from full understanding.
This mirrors the introduction of Rabbeinu Bachya on Parshas Naso.
He writes that with the completion of the Mishkan, the Shechinah became fixed in the hearts of the people, something that hadn’t yet been possible even after all the miracles of Egypt and the giving of the Torah. Only once we carried, served, and structured, only after walking through the long terrain of effort and repetition, did the presence of God truly settle within us.
All of this starts with the Leviim, the Nazir and the korbanos, then continues to us.
Katnus does not always appear as a theological idea. Sometimes it looks like standing in the kitchen wondering, Did I marry the right person? Watching your child struggle and thinking, Did we send them to the right school? Looking around your life and asking, Did we choose the right community? Did we make a mistake?
In those moments, it is easy to believe that something is broken. That the doubt is a sign we are off-track and the struggle is proof we missed something. Yet perhaps, as Parshas Naso teaches, the constriction is the design. The repetition, the uncertainty, the aching questions may be the very tools through which we are being lifted.
The question is how we respond when we do. Do we lean in? Do we continue to carry, even when the load feels heavy? Do we remain in place, even when it feels small? Do we keep singing, even when the words still feel distant?
The parsha ends with Moshe entering the Ohel Moed, hearing the voice of Hashem speaking from between the keruvim. That voice was always there. It only became audible after all the counting, the carrying, the purifying, the doubting, the blessing, and the offering.
This is the hidden work of transformation. From sameness to distinction, frustration to melody and silence to voice.
This is the arc of Naso. It begins in burden, in detail and in obligation. It passes through jealousy, confusion, separation, and longing. But in the end, there is song, blessing and elevation. It ends with a Kol Hashem, soft, clear, and sacred, speaking from between the keruvim.
We don’t arrive at Gadlus by bypassing Katnus. We arrive by walking through it again and again until even our smallest moments become vessels for something far greater than we imagined.
Rav Moshe Dovid Vali offers one final insight. The phrase מבין שני הכרובים, spells out, in roshei teivos, the name Moshe. This reveals that in that precise moment, within that sacred space of convergence, Moshe reached full alignment with his Shoresh Neshamah. He heard the Kol Hashem because he passed through the process. The Kol speaks from the space between the keruvim, highlighting the space between past and future, struggle and stillness.
That is the secret of Gadlus.
Likutei Moharan 237
Bereishis 29:34
See Inner Space, page 107, and Meditation and Kabbalah, chapter 7.
Entering the Sea of Wisdom by Rav Yoel Rosenfeld pg. 46
Maamar 26 – 5751
Very well researched. Lots of nice points
Wow! I will be printing this to read again over Shabbos, but I had no idea that “Chazal teach that a korban must be offered with the shirah of the Leviim, otherwise it is invalid.” Thank you!!!