The Making of the People of the Book
Chukas 5785
Erev Shabbos Parashas Chukas is a terrible day in Jewish history. On this day, around the year 5000 from Creation, corresponding to 1240 CE, on Friday of Parashas Chukas, the ninth of Tammuz, an apostate Jew named Nicolas Donin advised King Louis IX that if he wanted to rid France of the Jews, he should begin by destroying the Talmud.
The king gave the order for every available copy to be confiscated and twenty-four cartloads of handwritten manuscripts, approximately 12,000 volumes of the Talmud, were burned in the public square opposite the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. At the same time, he summoned four of the great Baalei Tosafos, the medieval Talmudic commentators whose words have appeared on the side of every printed page of the Talmud for centuries, to defend the Talmud in a public debate with Donin.
One of them, Rabbi Yechiel of Paris, had once been Donin’s teacher. Although Donin didn’t win the debate in any meaningful way, the outcome had already been decided and the manuscripts were burned. This took place two centuries before the invention of the printing press, which made the loss all the more devastating. Many of the volumes included original insights and commentaries of the Baalei Tosafos that were then lost forever.
Over the generations, many righteous Jews fasted to mark this day. Some of the kinnos recited on Tishah B’Av were written to memorialize it.
Rav Soloveitchik 1 explains that the burning in Paris was significant because it marked the beginning of a broader movement across Europe to collect and destroy Sifrei Kodesh in town squares.
Aside from the historical commemoration, this tragedy is deeply connected to our parsha. The Torah begins Parashas Chukas with the words: “And Hashem spoke to Moshe and to Aharon, saying: This is the statute of the Torah which Hashem has commanded, saying: Speak to the Children of Israel, and they shall take to you a perfectly red cow, without blemish, upon which no yoke has come”.2
Targum Onkelos translates this pasuk as “This is the decree of the Torah that Hashem has commanded to say.” The Rishonim write that a terrible gezeirah was revealed to the Sages of the time and it was hinted at in this very pasuk.
They asked a question in a dream regarding this decree and the answer revealed to them from Heaven was that the tragedy shouldn’t be marked by the calendar date alone, but rather by the day of the week. The day of Parashas Chukas had been designated in Heaven for this calamity. This is hinted in the aforementioned Targum Onkelos on the opening words of the parsha: “This is the statute of the Torah,” which Targum renders as “This is the decree of the Torah.”
This mesorah is recorded by the Magen Avraham3, quoting the Tanya Rabasi (not to be confused with the later Chassidic Tanya). In the section on the four fasts, the Tanya Rabasi writes that on Friday of Parashas Chukas, it is customary for individuals to fast, because on that day twenty-four wagons filled with sefarim were burned in France.
The Tanya Rabasi also notes that in the year 5408, corresponding to 1648 CE, two great Jewish communities were destroyed on this same day. This is recorded in the selichos composed by the author of the Shach, who documented these tragedies in detail.
I have often wondered about this fast. Why is it connected to the Friday before we read Parashas Chukas, rather than to a fixed calendar date like every other fast day? Why was the instruction from Heaven to anchor the memory in the parsha itself?
Without minimizing the magnitude of the loss, we now have the Talmud intact. In fact, more copies exist today than at any point in history. So I have the question of why do we still fast over something that has, in some form, been restored? Will we continue to fast on Tishah B’Av once Yerushalayim is rebuilt?
After reflecting on it, and after some random conversations and podcasts that performed their quiet work of osmosis on me, I began to realize that the tragedy can carry different meanings for different people in different times and places. Yes, it was about the burning of the Talmud. It was also about something deeper. It was about the destruction of dialogue, the breakdown of conversation, and the failure of understanding. Those who burned the Talmud didn’t want to engage with it. They didn’t want to understand what it meant or what the Jewish people stand for. They saw only a threat and their hatred didn’t leave room for an honest exchange.
We call ourselves the people of the book, however when the book burns, something deeper is lost. We are defined by what the text makes possible. Torah invites conversation and welcomes disagreement. With the exchange of minds we are challenged to grow. When the books were burned, those possibilities were burned with them.
Perhaps that is why we mark this day specifically on Erev Shabbos Parashas Chukas. As we mentioned above, the parsha opens with the mitzvah of the Parah Adumah. Why would this mysterious and paradoxical mitzvah be described as “the statute of the Torah”, the essence of the Torah itself?
My friend Hillel Fuld shared an idea this week that resonated with me. He explained that real faith begins where understanding ends. Sometimes God says no because He sees what we can’t. We live in an age that demands instant answers and absolute clarity. The Torah reminds us that trust in Hashem means letting go of the need to understand everything. Faith is believing that even when you don’t get what you want, Hashem still has your back.
Rav Kook4 teaches that every mitzvah has two layers. The first is a mishpat, which is something we can understand on a basic human level. The second is a chok, which is something that can’t be fully grasped. Even a mitzvah like the Parah Adumah has a chok aspect that remains hidden, alongside a mishpat aspect that has already been revealed. We may understand a mitzvah on one level, but to grasp it fully would require a depth of knowledge we may never reach.
At the Pesach Seder we ask, “Mah haeidus, hachukim, u’mishpatim?” These are human questions, rooted in the desire to understand what we do and why. Asking “why” helps us grow. It deepens our relationship with Hashem and with the mitzvos He gave us.
In life, we often encounter situations that we can understand or explain. These are our mishpatim. There are also situations that don’t make any sense at all, even on the most basic level and these are our chukim. They challenge us to search more deeply, even when there isn’t a clear answer.
We can ask why and we probably won’t receive a response. The lack of full understanding is part of the experience, as often it is hardest to respect what we don’t understand. Therefore, when we have a real situation that is unclear, that is when it is most important to respect it.
The burning of the Talmud, and the lack of dialogue that surrounded it, may have sparked a renewed commitment to preserving what was lost. Perhaps it even pushed us to become the people of the book in a more literal sense. In many ways, we are still there. Jewish publishing has flourished with scholarship and learning everywhere. Knowledge is more accessible now than ever.
Yet, when we look beyond the surface, something essential seems to be missing. We have held onto the book, yet it has become harder to engage in dialogue with people who think differently. It is difficult to hold space for opposing views, to sit with tension, or to practice active listening. We tend to interrupt, argue and dismiss. At times, we walk away entirely from engagement. We used to be willing to be proven wrong. Now, it feels as if we have become impossible to convince.
As someone once said on a podcast, it is a gift to have two hours to speak, rather than the seven seconds the rest of the world offers.
It is important to remember that entertaining opposing views often serves to sharpen one’s own. This is the essence of Chavrusa learning during which one can hear out the other person, give it space to breathe, and either accept it or respectfully counter it.
Rav Moshe Dovid Vali teaches5 that anything required for the continued existence of the world is called a chok. The very state of understanding that we don’t always understand is required for the world to endure.
Later in the parsha, after the death of Miriam, the people found themselves in desperate need of water. They were thirsty and afraid. Hashem instructed Moshe to speak to the rock. Instead, Moshe, in a moment of frustration, struck it twice. As a result, both Moshe and Aharon were told they won’t enter the Land of Canaan.
Why was the punishment so severe?
The Kedushas Levi offers a piercing insight. This was a moment when Moshe was meant to speak softly. He was meant to uplift the people, to remind them of their greatness, and to awaken their divine dignity. Instead, he scolded them with the words, “Listen, you rebels,” and struck the rock. When leaders stop speaking gently, when they fail to elevate others through encouragement, and when they replace words with force, something breaks in the soul of a people. Sometimes that break is irreparable.
The Berditchever explains that there are two ways to rebuke. One can rebuke through harshness, shame, and guilt. Or someone can rebuke through love, reverence, and a reminder of each person’s inner holiness. Every Jew carries a soul hewn from beneath the Kisei HaKavod. Rebuke that draws on this truth lifts them back to who they truly are.
Moshe, in this moment, chose the first path. As a result, he had to strike the rock. When rebuke comes from anger, the world no longer responds to words. It responds only to force.
The Ropshitzer Rebbe, in Zera Kodesh, takes this further. He explains that Moshe believed he needed to strike the rock in order to release its potential. He thought he was activating the mystical name of Hashem hidden within the word sela, rock. What Moshe missed was that he had already reached a level where his words alone could soften judgment and transform reality. In his humility, he underestimated his spiritual power. He believed he still needed action, when in truth, he could have opened the gates with speech alone.
By misjudging this moment, he lost the opportunity to reveal a world where gentle words, rather than force, open the gates.
The silence that replaced speech was his failure.
Perhaps that is our failure too. Every time we choose noise over dialogue, reaction over reflection, or control over presence, we repeat the same mistake.
It isn’t enough to be a People of the Book.
We must return to being a People of the Conversation.
I heard an idea from my brother-in-law, Rabbi Shmuel Goldstein, that each of us has our own maayan, our unique spiritual wellspring. Moshe expected the rock to behave as it had before, to mimic Miriam’s miracle. However, real growth can’t be imitated. The new miracle had to come from within him. The Kotzker Rebbe taught that avodah zarah is doing someone else’s avodah. True avodah is internal and authentic.
This is also the deeper message of the Parah Adumah. The one who purifies becomes impure. When we try to fix others without first refining ourselves, we contaminate the very process. Correction without introspection becomes projection. Before calling out someone else’s blemish, we must make sure we aren’t hiding our own. Even Moshe was held accountable for rebuking the people in anger—the very trait he was sent to master.
There is a well-known idea that we are often our own worst enemy. Perhaps a deeper truth is that we are what we hate. The things that unsettle us, that make us uncomfortable or throw us off, are often the very areas where our growth is waiting. If we want to uncover our true contribution to the world, we must look closely at what disturbs us. It is through that discomfort that our maayanos break open.
Parashas Chukas marks the end of an era and the beginning of a more vulnerable stage for the Jewish people. With Miriam’s death, the well that sustained the nation disappears. After Aharon's passing, the protective clouds vanish. These losses reflect an emotional and spiritual rupture. The generation begins to understand what it had only with its absence.
We often speak about appreciating people while they are still alive. In reality, true appreciation usually comes in retrospect. We recognize greatness in the silence. Miriam and Aharon were steady presences, sources of security and blessing. Their contributions were ongoing and often taken for granted. The Torah places their deaths near the laws of the Parah Adumah to teach that while the passing of a righteous person can bring atonement, it also leaves behind a vacuum. It purifies the generation at large, while leaving those close to them with a deep and lasting loss.
This is why the death of mentors, parents, teachers, or leaders can feel destabilizing. Their influence is often quiet yet profound. We rely on their presence more than we realize. The Parah Adumah reminds us that while purifying others, we must examine ourselves. As we do, we must also recognize those who have guided us, uplifted us, and shaped us while they are still with us. Gratitude should be the way to preserve a legacy while life still continues.
When the sifrei kodesh were set on fire, something deeper began to erode as well. People faded and their voices went silent. With that, the world lost its ability to listen.
The books may have burned, and while we became the people of the book, Torah Sheba’al Peh wasn’t lost. It is absorbed into memory, sustained through conversation, and carried forward in the quiet transmission of voice to voice, generation to generation. That legacy only endures if we are still listening, still learning, still growing. We must live the Torah’s content.
Parashas Chukas reminds us that understanding isn’t the key to transformation. Some truths must be carried even in silence. Some words must be spoken even when they are hard to say. Real growth begins in making space for others. We must rebuild a culture of dialogue as a means of knowledge sharing. We must speak with care, listen with patience, and allow truth to emerge.
The fire may have destroyed the pages and as Rav Chanina ben Teradyon said while wrapped in a burning Torah scroll, “The parchment is burning, but the letters are flying into the air.”6 The text may be gone, yet the meaning still seeks a place to land. That place must be us.
Let us revive the conversation that was burned with the scrolls. Let us celebrate the content as that is how we become the people of the book.
Mesoras Harav Kinos, Kina 41
Bamidbar 19:1
Orach Chaim, end of Siman 580
Orot Hamitzva, Chapter 3
Vayikra 16
Avoda Zara 18
“The Torah places their deaths near the laws of the Parah Adumah to teach that while the passing of a righteous person can bring atonement, it also leaves behind a vacuum. It purifies the generation at large, while leaving those close to them with a deep and lasting loss.”
This was very powerful. Thanks for writing this and I’m sharing some of it tonight at Shabbos dinner.