Well, we made it to the end of a very long journey. The Israelites are no longer wandering around in the wilderness. They've arrived at Canaan, where they'll settle in happily and peacefully among its inhabitants, with an end to the violence that plagued previous parashiyot. The Promised Land awaits! Milk and honey! Fruit trees! Dogs and cats lying together! Mass...harmoniousness...?

*Checks notes.* Sorry, no. None of that happens.

I know I was particularly unforgiving toward the Israelites in last week's portion. It was dark and bloody, and I'm not about to excuse violence for the sake of conquest—I save my moral relativism for more pressing matters, like whether you should eat Wendy's french fries dipped in a Frosty (ew, no -- don't eat at Wendy's). But it's important to remember that this is a narrative of my ancestors, and more importantly, that these portions offer a meditation on how communities are actually built. While violence can certainly be part of that process (see: most of human history), so too can speech, memory, justice, and inclusion. Revolutionary concepts, I know.

Maybe it's wishful thinking or simply the desire to find meaning in ancient texts, but a society—especially one that aspires to holiness—isn't created through conquest alone. It's shaped by how it speaks, remembers, and listens. Which, frankly, suggests we're all in more trouble than previously anticipated.

In the opening of Parashot Matot, God lays out the laws of vows and oaths—both personal and divine. What strikes me as peculiar is that whether a man makes a personal oath or one to God, he must keep it. Period. It's a demand for accountability regardless of intent, convenience, or the very human tendency to make promises we can't keep after our third glass of wine.

Promises, vows, oaths, basic honesty—speech binds a society together. There's little point in having a shared community where there's no accountability for breaking your word, whether to yourself, your neighbor, or God. It's a reasonable foundation, assuming anyone actually plans to follow through.

But as usual, this society comes with an asterisk the size of Mount Sinai when it comes to women. Under the control of their fathers or husbands, women don't carry the same obligation regarding vows and oaths. We're also apparently off the hook if no one heard us make the promise in the first place. On one hand—fantastic! I promised to do laundry yesterday, but I'm fairly certain neither my father nor spouse was within earshot. Now I'm out of grip socks for Pilates, but technically blameless.

However, this represents a deeply paternalistic approach that effectively excludes women from full participation in community life. Women aren't even counted in censuses. We take marriage vows that can be overridden by our husbands (put a pin in that). We're simultaneously required to have others speak for us while being silenced ourselves. It's a masterclass in having your cake and eating it too, if your cake is systemic marginalization.

What we promise shapes who we are, and who we are shapes our community. Excluding half the population from that foundational responsibility seems like poor planning, but what do I know? I'm just a woman whose oaths may or may not count depending on who's listening or who's roof I'm under. 

Another requirement for any functioning community is justice and mercy, which are qualities the Israelites haven't exactly excelled at thus far. But in Parashat Masei, God commands them to establish new laws, including the creation of cities of refuge.

I first encountered cities of refuge earlier this year during Mishnah Yomit (Mishnah Makkot 2), and the concept fascinated me. These six cities provide sanctuary for accidental murderers—cases of manslaughter rather than premeditated murder. From the victim's perspective, this seems frustratingly lenient. If someone accidentally killed someone I loved, I'd certainly give pause before tracking them down to another city. But then God carefully delineates the differences between murder, manslaughter, and the true meaning of justice.

Of course, most Israelites are guilty of various crimes themselves. Does it seem hypocritical to enact laws for people who are obviously culpable? Perhaps. But before settling into their forty-eight cities, this community wandered, erred, and hopefully grew. Laws aren't created in a vacuum—they reflect experience. A justice system can't be carved from thin air; it must emerge from lived reality. Memory, ideally, creates compassion. That experience of exile and loss shouldn't produce rigid judges but understanding ones.

In theory, anyway. In practice? Well, we're still working on that several millennia later.

To truly cement a community together, you have to include the voiceless. So let's return to that pin about women.

Tzelophechad's daughters (the spelling varies depending on which Torah translation you're reading) return to the narrative, and I'm delighted they do. Until I really studied these portions, I'd never encountered them before, which is a shame because they deserve significantly more attention.

These five women approach Moshe about their inheritance rights and—miraculously—in the very next portion, they receive what they ask for. Of course, they must marry within their tribe, Menasseh, to prevent losing their inheritance, because patriarchy never met a victory it couldn't snatch. But still, progress is progress.

It's difficult to overstate this point: inclusivity matters, especially for those historically silenced. It's fundamental to building ethical and spiritual wholeness. When a community genuinely includes everyone, it creates opportunities for growth that wouldn't otherwise exist. Once again -- revolutionary thinking. Someone give me the Nobel Peace Prize. 

The parashiyot conclude on a surprisingly optimistic note: the Israelites slowly coalescing around sacred speech, compassionate justice, and expanding inclusivity. They're ostensibly ready for the Promised Land (let's pretend for a moment we don't know how that turns out) precisely because they've learned from their years of exile and wandering.

It's both bittersweet and sobering to reflect on this hopeful vision and compare it to our present reality, both as individuals and as members of larger communities. Do we honor our words? Do we approach justice with compassion rather than vengeance? Do we amplify the voices of the marginalized, or do we ignore and silence them? What are we actually learning from our collective wandering?

These aren't merely ancient questions—they're devastatingly contemporary ones. Only by genuinely learning from our time in various wildernesses can we hope to build communities worthy of inheritance. Whether we're capable of such learning remains an open question, but at least the blueprint exists.

Even if we're still figuring out how to read it.