Some men were ritually impure due to contact with a human corpse, and they could not sacrifice the Pesach-offering on that day … These men said, “We are ritually impure through contact with a human corpse. Why should we be diminished, so as not to bring the offering of Hashem on its appointed time?” (9:6)
One must be ritually pure in order to offer the Korban Pesach (or any Korban for that matter). These men were tamei meis, ritually impure, due to their contact with a human corpse. Confronted with the circumstance, they came to Moshe Rabbeinu and offered their heartfelt plea. Lamah ni’gra, “Why should we be diminished?” They felt that by being unable to offer the Korban Pesach together with the rest of Klal Yisrael, they would somehow be lacking. In their minds, missing this mitzvah meant standing apart from their brethren, as if they were somehow inferior Jews.
Yet, this reaction is striking. If a person is prevented from performing a mitzvah through circumstances beyond his control – what Chazal refer to as onus – he bears no guilt. The Torah does not hold him accountable for that which he cannot do. These men surely understood this principle. Despite this dispensation, they still cried out, Lama nigora? Their words reveal the depth of their yearning. It was not a question of obligation; it was a question of longing. They so deeply desired to perform this mitzvah that the very thought of being excluded from it caused them pain. What, then, was so special about the Korban Pesach that it stirred such powerful emotion? Perhaps the answer lies in the underlying message of the mitzvah itself.
The Korban Pesach represented far more than a ritual offering. It symbolized the Jewish people’s courageous break from Egyptian idolatry. The Egyptians worshipped the sheep as a deity. By taking that very animal, tying it to their beds for days, and ultimately slaughtering it publicly, the Jews demonstrated absolute loyalty to Hashem. The Korban Pesach embodied total devotion to Hashem – mesiras nefesh at its apex. In this sense, it represented a deeper dimension of Yetzias Mitzrayim. It was a spiritual declaration of independence – a proclamation that Klal Yisrael belonged solely to Hashem.
In a sense, the Korban Pesach meant so much to these men, to the point that they could not bear the thought of missing out on it. They could not stand on the sidelines, while the rest of the nation affirmed their commitment to Hashem to the point of self-sacrifice. (True, they were not presently being moser nefesh, but this was the spiritual motif of the korban.)
A powerful lesson may be derived from this. True devotion to mitzvos is measured, not only by what we are obligated to do, but how deeply we desire and yearn to do them. A Jew who longs for a mitzvah that he is unable to perform demonstrates a profound love for Hashem no less powerful than the mitzvah itself.
Their yearning generated one of the Torah’s most remarkable and unprecedented responses. Because they refused to accept spiritual exclusion, Hashem granted a second opportunity – Pesach Sheini. A Jew who sincerely longs to come close to Hashem is never turned away. The heart that asks, Lama nigora is already on the path of return to Hashem.
Ratzon, deep-rooted desire, unbridled yearning to fulfill a mitzvah, to come closer to Hashem, has extraordinary powers. Horav Meilech Biderman, shlita, cites the Divrei Yechezkel, Shinyiver Rav, zl who wonders at Moshe Rabbeinu’s response to these men. He said, “Stand, and I will hear what Hashem will command you.” Stand and wait – meaning, “I will get back to you immediately.” How did Moshe know that an immediate response would be forthcoming? Why was he so confident that he could turn to Hashem whenever he wanted? Rashi underscores this idea, writing, “Fortunate is the human being who may so assuredly rely on the fact that at any time that he so wishes, he can speak with the Shechinah.”
While this is an exemplary attribute which undoubtedly only our quintessential leader could possess, is it not inconsistent with his character? As the humblest man on earth, to imply that one can turn around, speak to Hashem and immediately receive a response, does not represent humility. The Shinyiver explains that this is precisely the point that the Torah is emphasizing. Moshe was not relying on his own merits. Had this been true, he never would have spoken so inarguably. His intrinsic humility would have prevented this. When he saw the burning desire of these men, their sincerity and authentic yearning, however, he was certain that their yearning would produce immediate results. This is why he was so confident.
Rav Meilech added, “If a Yid cries, if a Yid wants, if a Yid truly desires, then there is nothing that can prevent him from eliciting Hashem’s response – nothing. One geshrei, outcry of longing, is sufficient. Ubber, but it must be a real cry.”
The focus of the commentators has been on the nigora, diminished, underscoring the attitude these men presented. They felt that, by missing out on a mitzvah, they would be lesser Jews. This commendable feeling is what earned them the merit of establishing Pesach Sheini for all generations, connected with their yearning to perform a mitzvah.
I think we may shift the focus from nigora to lamah, why. When a person asks lamah, others often misunderstand him. The word can sound like a protest or an accusation. Yet, in the language of sincere faith, lamah frequently expresses something very different. It is not rebellion, but introspection. A sincere lamah is a person’s way of turning the question inward, rather than outward. Instead of blaming others, he examines himself. Where did I fail? What might I have done differently? Is there something I can repair, so that I may once again stand where I belong?
Thus, when the men who were unable to bring the Korban Pesach approached Moshe Rabbeinu and asked, Lamah nigora? “Why should we be diminished?” they were not protesting the halachah. They understood that their ritual impurity prevented them from participating. They did not challenge the law, nor did they accuse anyone of injustice. Rather, their question reflected a deep and painful introspection: Did we fail in some way? Why are we the only ones left out? Can we do something to repair this loss? Theirs was not voices of complaint; it was the voices of sincere yearning.
We find a similar expression in the words of Dovid HaMelech, who cried out in Tehillim, Keili, Keili, lamah azavtani? “My G-d, my G-d, why have You forsaken me?” This was not a rejection of faith. To the contrary, it reflected the depth of his faith. Dovid did not accuse Hashem of abandonment. Rather, he searched within himself, wondering if perhaps his own shortcomings had created a distance between himself and the Divine Presence. “Did I do something to cause this distance? Does something within me need to be corrected?” Such extraordinary introspection – the willingness to examine oneself rather than assign blame – reflects a profound spiritual sensitivity. Indeed, it was precisely this attitude that merited the creation of Pesach Sheini. When people sincerely seek to better themselves, when their longing for closeness to Hashem is genuine, Heaven responds. Because these men yearned so deeply to participate in the mitzvah, Hashem granted them another opportunity – an entirely new mitzvah that had never before existed.
This teaches us a powerful lesson. When a Jew sincerely desires to grow, when he searches his soul with humility and asks lamah, not in accusation, but in self-reflection, Hashem opens new doors and grants him another chance. He never turns away those who truly seek to improve themselves. On the contrary, Heaven itself accommodates their yearning, providing them with new opportunities to return, to repair, and to once again take their rightful place among those who serve Hashem. Such people truly deserve another chance.
A well-known story tells about the tzadik, Horav Levi,zl, Yitzchak m’Berditchev. He was known as one of the greatest advocates on behalf of Klal Yisrael. Why would I cite a well-known story? We are always looking for new and exotic stories, while ignoring the simple, straightforward, timeless lessons of the classics. Rav Levi Yitzchak was real. His petitions on behalf of Klal Yisrael were sincere. Everything about him was authentic. When he made a statement it could be taken at face value as a verity. Thus, these stories resonate and inspire, are authentic,and carry an empowering message.
One year, on Yom Kippur, Rav Levi Yitzchak noticed a simple shepherd sitting in the back of the shul. He was young, barely a teenager, and clearly out of place in the shul. He did not know how to read the words of the siddur/machzor, and he had no idea of the sequencing of the tefillah.
Throughout the day, Rav Levi Yitzchak observed the boy’s frustration as ensuing agitation. Finally, during Neilah, he cried out, “Ribono Shel Olam, I do not know the words, but if You want, I can whistle the way I call my sheep!” Before anyone could stop him, the boy let out a loud whistle. The congregation was shocked. This had never happened before in the holy Berditcherver’s shul. Some people were ready to throw him out of the shul for committing such outrageous behavior on the holiest day of the year. The Berditchever raised his hand as a signal to desist. They were not throwing anyone out of the shul on Yom Kippur – and especially not this innocent boy.
“Leave him alone,” he said. He then made his famous declaration. “The boy’s whistle has penetrated the Heavens and opened the gates for our prayers to enter.”
He explained that the boy’s cry had emanated from a place of pure sincerity. He had no learning, no knowledge of the liturgy, and no formal training. He was a Jewish boy with almost no Jewish knowledge, yet, his heart was aflame with a passion to serve Hashem. Unable to express himself with the proper words, he offered the only thing that he had – whistling.
The shepherd boy was not protesting his ignorance, but simply expressing his deep longing to participate in the service in any way he could. We can derive a profound truth from the men in the wilderness and the young shepherd boy, as well as countless others who just want to be an active part of Klal Yisrael: A Jewish soul does not want to remain outside. When a Jewish soul sincerely longs to come closer – even if he lacks knowledge, preparation or opportunity – Heaven responds.
