Parashat Naso: The Difficult Task of Truly Seeing the Other

One of the most dangerous transformations of our time happens almost imperceptibly: we stop seeing people and start seeing categories. 

We no longer encounter complex human beings shaped by stories, pain, contradictions, and invisible struggles. We see labels. Sides. Identities reduced to quick slogans. From there, we judge, condemn, or discard with alarming speed.

We live surrounded by voices that demand immediate reaction. Screens that multiply suspicion. Opinions formed before understanding. Accusations repeated so often that they begin to feel like truth—even when no one has actually verified them.

Public space has often become a place where aggression draws more attention than reflection, where humiliation carries more weight than listening, and where constant indignation slowly replaces the very capacity to think.

And maybe because of this, an ancient teaching of the Torah acquires a surprising relevance today.

The parashah of Naso begins with organization, responsibilities, and roles within the encampment in the wilderness. But beneath those technical details lies a far deeper question: what truly holds a human community together?

Interestingly, the Torah does not only focus on those who stood at the visible center of the Sanctuary, but also on those who carried what seemed secondary: the fabrics, coverings, and curtains of the Mishkan.

They did not carry the Ark. They did not transport the holiest objects. Their role was to sustain the very space in which collective life could exist.

And perhaps here lies one of the most profound insights of the parashah.

Societies do not survive only through great leaders, symbols, or speeches. They survive thanks to those who quietly preserve the fragile fabric of everyday human life.

Those who contain conflict before it erupts. Those who listen before judging. Those who continue to care for relationships when it would be easier to walk away. Those who are able to hold spaces of dignity in difficult times.

In Jewish tradition there is a deeply radical idea: every human being represents an entire universe. This is why the Torah insists repeatedly on counting people—not as statistics, not as anonymous masses. To count is to recognize. To affirm that no one should disappear into the crowd.

The very name of the parashah, Naso, can be understood as “to lift up.” To lift another person’s head. To elevate their dignity. To make visible someone who risks becoming invisible.

I think one of the deepest deficiencies of our time is precisely this: we are losing the ability to truly see.

Later in the Torah, Moses is described in astonishing terms:

“And the man Moses was very humble, more than any other human being on the face of the earth.”

The Sages ask how it is possible that Moses—the greatest of all prophets—is defined by humility. They explain something remarkable: Moses genuinely observed people. He saw the weight each person carried. He recognized internal struggles, hidden pain, and the invisible complexity that accompanies every human life.

That is what made him humble.

Because when one truly sees another person, one realizes that no one moves through life easily. One discovers how much we do not know about the suffering of others. One understands that behind every reaction lies a story we cannot see.

Humility, then, is not thinking less of oneself, but understanding more deeply the humanity of others. And that capacity seems to be eroding in our societies.

We have become accustomed to immediate suspicion. To collective blame. To constructing enemies rather than engaging interlocutors. To consuming simplified versions of reality until we become incapable of tolerating nuance.

Even within the Jewish people itself—so deeply affected today by pain, war, antisemitism, and global polarization—there is sometimes the risk that fear will tear apart precisely what we are trying to protect.

In this context, Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing found in this parashah, resonates with particular force:

“May the Lord bless you and protect you. May He shine His face upon you… and grant you peace.”

The blessing culminates in one decisive word: shalom.

Not power. Not victory. Not greatness. Peace. Just Peace

Rabbinic tradition teaches that there is no vessel large enough to contain blessing except peace. Because without a minimal framework of coexistence, even the greatest gifts overflow and are lost.

And perhaps today the most urgent spiritual challenge is not only to defend our identities, but also to ensure that hatred does not destroy our ability to recognize one another as human beings.

The curtains of the Mishkan offer a powerful image. They were not rigid, immovable walls. They were flexible, mobile fabrics, able to open and close as the people journeyed through the wilderness.

They protected, but they did not fully isolate.

We, too, must learn this wisdom: to build identity without turning it into confinement; to hold convictions without dehumanizing those who think differently; to protect our wounds without becoming blind to the pain of others.

This is what it may mean today to be heirs of the children of Gershon.

Not necessarily to stand at the visible center of the Sanctuary, but to take on the quieter—and perhaps more difficult—task of holding together the fabrics of human coexistence.

Because there are times when the most sacred act is not building greatness, but simply preventing the fabric from tearing apart.

And perhaps that is, precisely, the spiritual task of our time.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Gustavo Geier