Parshiyot Mattot-Masei – 5785

Reuben, Gad, and the Tension Between Place and Purpose

A D’var Torah for Parshiyot Mattot-Masei

By Hazzan Rabbi Luis Cattan (AJR ’20)

When Natan Sharansky was Chairman of the Jewish Agency, I had the privilege of sitting with him and a small group of global Jewish leaders to discuss Jewish identity. In that conversation, he shared a metaphor that has stayed with me ever since.

He spoke of the pain of living under Soviet rule—of the repression, the fear, and the impossibility of making aliyah. But then he added, “More than the Iron Curtain once prevented Soviet Jews from making aliyah, today it is the Golden Curtain that prevents American Jews.”

In other words, it’s not external oppression that distances many Jews from Israel—it’s comfort. Affluence, freedom, and assimilation create a different kind of barrier. A quieter one. But perhaps no less potent.

Something similar is reflected in this week’s parashah. As the Israelites stand on the threshold of entering the Land of Canaan after forty years of wandering, two and a half tribes step forward with a surprising request. The tribes of Reuben and Gad—later joined by half of Menashe—ask not to cross the Jordan. They want to settle in the lands of Gilead and Bashan, newly conquered and ideal for livestock.

“The land which the Lord struck down before the congregation of Israel is a land for livestock, and your servants have livestock” (Numbers 32:4).

At first glance, it seems like a practical request. They’re not rejecting the Promised Land—they’re simply asking to settle in a place that suits their needs.

But Moses is alarmed.

“Shall your brothers go to war while you sit here?” (Numbers 32:6)

Moses hears not a logistical concern, but an echo of a much earlier failure—the sin of the spies. He worries that fear and self-interest may once again fracture national unity. That this isn’t just about land—but about shared purpose.

Only after the tribes pledge to join the battle for Canaan, to lead from the front and not return home until the mission is complete, does Moses approve their request. They are permitted to live on the periphery—but only once they have proven their commitment to the collective.

This moment reflects an enduring tension in Jewish life: the pull between individual or tribal interests and the larger needs of the people. This isn’t simply a land dispute. It’s a test of responsibility—of who carries it, and for whom.

That same tension plays out today between Israel and the Diaspora.

In Israel, the burdens of sovereignty are tangible—security threats, army service, the messy work of building and maintaining a state. Israeli Jews often feel they are carrying the physical weight of Jewish history.

In the Diaspora, Jews face different challenges: rising antisemitism, questions of continuity, and emotional distance from the land and its people. There are misunderstandings, and sometimes resentment.

Some Israelis ask: What do we have in common with them?

Some Diaspora Jews ask: Do we have a voice in a country we don’t live in—but deeply care about?

At the extremes, voices on both sides claim we have grown apart, that our experiences and values no longer align. Some Jews in America even question Israel’s legitimacy or blame it for antisemitism at home. Others, particularly in liberal and progressive religious circles, feel increasingly alienated from a State whose religious authorities do not recognize them. Finding themselves living in the paradoxical situation of enjoying more religious freedom in America than in Israel.

The model offered by Reuben, Gad, and Menashe is not just a compromise—it’s an innovation. Like the daughters of Tzlofehad, who reframed questions of inheritance and agency, these tribes introduced a new paradigm: you can live outside the center, but not apart from the people.

Their privilege to settle on the far side of the Jordan was granted only after they pledged solidarity—not in sentiment, but in action. They would fight, risk, and sacrifice alongside their brothers. Only then could they return to their land.

This is the principle of Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—all of Israel is responsible for one another (Talmud, Shevuot 39a).

Solidarity must be more than symbolic. It must be lived.

For Diaspora Jews, that may mean showing up in real ways—through Aliya, advocacy, education, philanthropy, and moral clarity.

For Israeli Jews, it may mean listening to the voices of the Diaspora—not only as donors or supporters, but as partners in shaping our collective future.

I believe that the highest expression of Jewish identity is realized by living in the Land of Israel. Many of our great sages, particularly in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, considered it a mitzvah. But even so, the Torah doesn’t require that we all live in one place—or see the world in one way. It requires that we never forget our connection. And that we never abandon one another.

Reuben and Gad could live across the Jordan—but only because they did not walk away from Israel’s fate. In our day, the same must hold true. We are many communities, but we are one people.

The call of this parashah is timeless. In moments of crisis, division, or comfort—will we turn inward, or will we turn toward one another? Will we serve only our own interests, or will we answer the call of shared destiny?

How do we support Israel in an environment where doing so risks social or professional exile? Can we—and should we—include Jews in our communal life who openly deny the right of Israel to exist?

These are not easy questions. But the story of Reuben and Gad reminds us: self-interest is not wrong. It simply must be balanced with purpose.

Each of us is called to carry a part of the collective burden—through our hands, our hearts, our voices, or our presence.

May we rise to that calling.

May we continue to show up—for one another—not in uniformity, but in unity.

And may we always remember that no matter where we live, we are part of one people, with one heart, one future, and one destiny—bound together in responsibility and hope.

_______________

Rabbi Ḥazzan Luis Cattan (AJR ’20) is currently serving at Sutton Place Synagogue in New York City. He is the Immediate Past President of the Cantors Assembly. As a native Uruguayan, he attended the Catholic University of Montevideo receiving his BA in Social Communication Sciences with a major in Advertising. He sought private instruction under the tutelage of renowned local teachers. Upon returning from Israel, where he spent a year studying, he started his Ḥazzanut training with different mentors in Uruguay and Argentina as well. He became the Head Ḥazzan at the NCI (the largest Conservative Synagogue in Uruguay). He also served as International Vice President of Mercaz Olami (Zionist Conservative Movement) as one of the founders of the Uruguayan Branch