Miriam and Aharon spoke against Moshe because of the Kushite woman (Tzipporah) whom he had taken…. And they said: “Has the Lord spoken only to Moshe? Has He not spoken to us as well?”
Bamidbar 12:1–2
The extraordinary story of Moshe Rabbeinu is of a man larger than life. Moshe’s greatness is unprecedented. But this greatness cost him dearly and ultimately turned him into a tragic figure. Much goes wrong in his life because he was too great.
There is a remarkable incident in this parsha:
“Miriam and Aharon spoke against Moshe because of the Kushite woman (Tzipporah) whom he had taken…. And they said: ‘Has the Lord spoken only to Moshe? Has He not spoken to us as well?’” (Bamidbar 12:1–2)
The midrash: celibacy as a cause for complaint
A strange and intriguing midrash explains why they spoke against Moshe:
Miriam noticed that Tzipporah no longer adorned herself in womanly finery. She asked why, and Tzipporah responded: “Your brother does not attend to the matter”—meaning Moshe had ceased marital relations with her. Miriam told Aharon, and the two criticized Moshe: “Has the Lord spoken only to Moshe?”[1]
In other words, Moshe’s celibacy sparked their criticism. They viewed it as a denial of the mitzvah of procreation—something even the greatest should not abandon. His abstention was interpreted as arrogance: See how holy I am!
In contrast to this, the Torah immediately tells us: “Now the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than any other man on the face of the earth” (12:3).
But we must still ask: Why did Moshe abstain?
And was Tzipporah wrong not to beautify herself to attract him?
A marriage strained by mission
When one reflects back on Moshe’s life, one cannot help but wonder about his marriage. How successful could it have been?
Moshe led 600,000 men—plus women and children—out of Egypt. All were former slaves with a slave mentality. They were difficult, quarrelsome people, wandering for forty years in the desert while complaining, rebelling, and demanding. At first Moshe judged every dispute alone until his father-in-law Yitro intervened (Shemot 18).
The people rebelled repeatedly and even threatened to kill Moshe.[2] Korach’s insurrection was the culmination of the uprisings (Bamidbar 16). Even though Moshe maintained his composure under extremely trying circumstances, he must have been deeply traumatized.
A man bearing such burdens could not have had a normal family life.
It is therefore not surprising that Moshe and Tzipporah gradually grew apart. She even appears to have lived frequently with her father Yitro rather than with Moshe.[3] Tzipporah may have felt deeply hurt by Moshe’s overwhelming dedication to his mission, which left little room for domestic life. She saw him only intermittently—and he lost interest not only in her appearance but perhaps in their conjugal life altogether.
Some women lift themselves into the greatness of their husbands’ mission. Others cannot and eventually disengage. A degree of jealousy may well have developed. Moshe was forever occupied with other people, not with her.
Their two sons likewise seem to have suffered. There is very little mention of them, and the Tanakh records no significant relationship between father and children.
Moshe must have suffered too—but could do nothing. This was his fate and Divine calling.
A love too close to Heaven
Moshe’s relationship with God overshadowed everything. His closeness to the Divine made relationships with human beings—wife, children, and nation—virtually impossible. He had an affinity with God that, according to some kabbalistic sources, bordered on the erotic.⁴[4] One can almost forgive Tzipporah for being jealous of God. Subconsciously she may have felt that Moshe was engaged in a kind of “Divine adultery.”
For Moshe, this meant he could never be a model teacher in the conventional sense. He was sui generis, without equal. He spoke “mouth to mouth” with God, a kind of Divine Kiss (cf. Bamidbar 12:8). His prophetic lens was perfectly clear—aspaklaria ha-me’irah, the “clear lens.”[5] No other prophet reached this level. He was an eternal singularity.
Understanding the implications, he may have chosen not to father more children. How could he have a true spiritual successor?
Thus Moshe became a lonely man of faith.
Solitude as destiny
Moshe carried a crushing burden, living in solitude, often physically apart from his family and people. It is no coincidence that he pitched his tent outside the camp (Shemot 33:7). Loneliness accompanied his greatness.
This is the fate of nearly all great men—and, equally, great women whose husbands don’t accompany them on the journey. One can be lonely even when not alone. Even in the midst of a crowd, one may stand entirely by oneself.
The prophets of Israel suffered this same fate: Eliyahu, Yirmiyahu, Yonah. Even King David ultimately felt forsaken by God: “How long, O Lord—will You forget me forever?” (Tehillim 13:2).
David’s desire for Batsheva may even reflect a yearning for intimacy, for closeness, for the emotional solace that resembles the soul’s yearning for God.
Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook—one of the most God-infused souls of modern times—once wrote in anguish that no one, young or old, understood him, and even his closest friends had abandoned him.[6]
Transforming loneliness into a virtue
Loneliness is a terrible burden. One can escape it only by turning it inward and transforming it into a virtue. This is possible only in the world of faith—when solitude becomes “an audience chamber of God,” as Walter Savage Landor wrote.[7]
But such an audience comes only with fear and trembling.
Notes
[1] Sifrei Behaalotecha §99 (old: §41). See also Rashi on Bamidbar 12:1.
[2] See, for instance, the episode of the meraglim (Bamidbar 14:10), Datan and Aviram (Bamidbar 16), and earlier conflicts in Shemot 17.
[3] See Shemot 18:2–3, where Tzipporah and her sons are brought to Moshe by Yitro, implying they were not with him.
[4] Cf. Zohar II:99a; see also Rav Kook, Orot HaKodesh, vol. 3, discussions of prophetic eros.
[5] Aspaklaria HaMe’irah: Chagigah 5b; Yevamot 49b.
[6] Rav A. Y. Kook, Iggerot HaRa’ayah, vol. 1, letter 128.
[7] Walter Savage Landor, Imaginary Conversations. The line often paraphrased as seeing solitude as God’s “audience chamber.”
Questions to Ponder
- Rabbi Cardozo portrays Moshe’s greatness as the source of his tragedy. Do you believe that extraordinary spiritual calling inevitably exacts a personal cost—or is this a failure of integration rather than destiny?
- Miriam and Aharon criticize Moshe for withdrawing from marital life. Was their protest an act of jealousy, moral courage, or necessary realism? When, if ever, does spiritual exceptionalism excuse neglect of ordinary human obligations?
- Moshe is described as supremely humble, yet his celibacy could easily be read as a gesture of religious superiority. How do we distinguish between genuine humility and behavior that appears arrogant, even when inwardly sincere?
- If Moshe deliberately avoided raising successors because no one could match his level, does this reveal humility—or despair? Is greatness that cannot be transmitted a blessing or a failure?
- Rabbi Cardozo implies that prophetic clarity (aspaklaria ha-me’irah) makes ordinary relationships nearly impossible. Do you believe that deep spiritual vision distances one from humanity—or should true spirituality deepen human connection?
