Moshe is taught the laws of the red heifer, whose ashes purify a person who has been contaminated by contact with a dead body.

After forty years of journeying through the desert, the Jewish people arrive in the wilderness of Zin. Miriam passes away, and the people thirst for water. Hashem tells Moshe to speak to a rock and command it to give water. Moshe gets angry at the rebellious Jews and strikes the stone. Water issues forth, but Moshe is told that because of this act, neither he nor Aaron will enter Israel.

Aaron dies at Hor Hahar and is succeeded in the high priesthood by his son Elazar. Venomous snakes attack the camp after yet another eruption of discontent. Moshe places a brass serpent upon a high pole, and all who will gaze heavenward are healed. The people sing a song in honor of the miraculous well that provided them water in the desert.

Moshe leads the people in battles against the Emorite kings Sichon and Og and conquers their lands, which lie east of the Jordan.

The fast of the 17th of the Hebrew of Tammuz, known as Shivah Asar B’Tammuz, is the start of a three-week mourning period for the destruction of Jerusalem and the two Holy Temples.

The fast actually commemorates five tragic events that occurred on this date:

1. Moses broke the tablets when he saw the Jewish people worshipping the Golden Calf.

2. During the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem, the Jews were forced to cease offering the daily sacrifices due to the lack of sheep.

3. Apostomos burned the holy Torah.

4. An idol was placed in the Holy Temple.

5. The walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans, in 69 CE, after a lengthy siege. (Three weeks later, after the Jews put up a valiant struggle, the Romans destroyed the second Holy Temple on the 9th of Av.)

After the Israelites once again complained, Hashem commanded Moshe to put a brass serpent up on a pole and that all the Jews suffering from the illness would be cured. Why a serpent? And why must it have been up high?

The snake was to teach a powerful lesson. It wasn't the serpent that cured them, of course. It was Hashem. By staring upward at the serpent, the Jews were reminded of Who was in charge and who had the power to heal them - Hashem.

Hashem specifically used a serpent however in this lesson to teach them that sometimes what seems to be the problem in your life, is truly the solution. The highest blessings can be disguised as the most difficult challenges. When we look up, we realise that our hardships too are from Hashem and are purely good.

Time began. So we are told in the first phrase of our Torah. Today, the hard data of astronomers and physicists concurs. As impossible as it is to imagine, all we know of—space, time, the very nature of things—all has a beginning.

And it has a goal, an ultimate state. Every era, every event, every moment through which time passes is a step closer to that goal. Moshiach is not a part of the process, it is the objective.

The minchah, or afternoon, prayer is the shortest of the three daily services. Moreover, the time for this prayer often arrives while we are still immersed in our work. People are tired and busy, and it is difficult to divest oneself of the effects of a day at the office in order to generate proper intention and emotional involvement. Thus, little minchah often receives short shrift. Paradoxically, in spite of these seeming disadvantages, minchah is a uniquely sublime and transcendent service. In the chassidic view of things, it is invariably the small, the inconspicuous, the inconvenient action that is of greatest consequence. Although this concept is elucidated in holy books, the Almighty saw fit to teach it to me by devising circumstances in which I would learn it through an experience.

It has long been my privilege to speak at the Shabbaton held every year at the end of December in Crown Heights. I would usually arrive in New York on Thursday or Friday, and leave the following Sunday. I always scheduled my return flight to allow me the opportunity to join the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s minyan (prayer quorum) for minchah on Sunday afternoon.

On one such occasion many years ago, I had arranged to fly back to Montreal at 4:30 PM. That Sunday morning, I began to worry about my return trip. I am a very nervous traveler, and I generally insist on being at the airport at least a full hour in advance of my flight. Why had I decided to leave so early? The Rebbe’s minyan generally began at 3:15, and usually ended at 3:30. Allowing myself 15 minutes to return to where I was staying, I could leave for LaGuardia no earlier than 3:45. What if traffic was heavy? What if a tire went flat? What if a tree had fallen across the Interboro Parkway, and it being Sunday, the road crews took their sweet time in removing it? I calmed myself with the thought that these possibilities were very unlikely, and that if I left at 3:45 sharp I would probably make my flight.

I then embarked on my yearly nerve-racking ritual of arranging for a ride to LaGuardia Airport. In those days there was only one car service in Crown Heights, and it was run by chassidim, a class of people for whom time means nothing. I walked into the storefront office and told them I wanted a car to take me to LaGuardia at 3:45. I emphasized (several times) that 3:45 does not mean 3:50, or even 3:46. I was not interested in approximations. The proprietor, in soothing tones, assured me of a car at precisely 3:45. They were professionals with considerable experience in this business, and there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

I started to leave, but I remembered something as I got to the door. I turned to the boss and asked him whether he wouldn’t care to know the address to which the car should be sent. “Oh yes, of course, sorry.” You see the sort of people I was dealing with.

By 3:00 PM I was packed into the little synagogue in which the Rebbe prayed minchah. Every student attending one of the two local yeshivahs, as well as numerous neighborhood residents and out-of-town guests, were competing for space in that small room. My bones ached and I couldn’t breathe, but this did not trouble me. This was normal. What bothered me was the time. 3:15, 3:16, 3:17. At 3:20 the Rebbe came in, and minchah began. I tried to concentrate on my prayer, reminding myself that I was in the same minyan as my holy Rebbe. However, my overwrought brain simply would not mind. It perversely dwelt on my imminent betrayal by the car service.

In the course of my struggles with myself, I became aware of a soft sobbing sound. I had already raced through my prayer, and I was able to glance sideways at my neighbor. He was a tall, thin, bearded man, dressed in chassidic garb. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his cheeks. His face was intense with concentration. He prayed slowly and with obvious effort.

In spite of myself, I was touched. I could not imagine what sort of terrible trouble lay behind that heartfelt prayer. Perhaps he had a sick child at home, or some crushing financial burden. I assumed that he was an out-of-town visitor seeking the Rebbe’s aid, and I could not help feeling guilty about my own silly preoccupations with the car service, the airport, etc. I mentally wished him the best and hoped that things would turn out well for him.

Minchah completed, I raced back to my host’s home, and by 3:42 I was awaiting the promised car with fire in my eyes, certain that it would not show. At precisely 3:45, a noisy, rusty station wagon, belching blue exhaust, rolled up, and the driver waved me in. I couldn’t believe it. I put my suitcase in the back and then climbed in next to the driver.

My second shock came with the realization that the driver was none other than my heartbroken neighbor at Minchah. As we drove off, the driver hummed a jolly chassidic melody, and seemed quite happy. We began to talk. Cautiously I asked him about his welfare: his health, the health of his family and the state of his finances. Each question elicited a hearty (if somewhat perplexed) “Thank G‑d.” Moreover, his wife was soon due to give birth, and he was in a particularly excited and happy mood. Gradually, it began to dawn on me that the remarkable outpouring of the heart that I had witnessed earlier was this man’s ordinary, daily minchah.

Yakov Brawer