July 27, 2025|ב' אב ה' אלפים תשפ"ה Every Stop Matters By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Yael and I traveled to Glacier National Park in Montana a few weeks ago, and some of the scenery was among the most breathtaking we’ve ever experienced. One of the most stunning areas of the park was called Many Glacier, and we planned to spend a full day there. We asked a park ranger which trails were “must-do” hikes, and he told us that the two most popular trails were the Grinnell Glacier Trail and the Iceberg Lake Trail.

We’re used to hikes that last about two to three hours. The Grinnell Glacier Trail is about 11 miles round-trip, but you can take a boat shuttle to cut the hike to about 7 miles, which sounded doable. However, there was a problem. Near the end of the trail, a bear was hovering over the carcass of an animal, so they had closed that portion of the trail, so we decided not to use that trail. The other main option, the Iceberg Lake Trail, was also long, about 11 to 12 miles and a significant amount of elevation, with a round-trip time of around six hours. We had never done a hike that long before. But the trail looked so much more spectacular than any other options that we decided to go for it.

Now, of course, as Orthodox Jews, we’re always a little paranoid about running out of food. Also, being that this was my first six-hour hike, we were also nervous about running out of water. So I brought a backpack stuffed with water bottles and enough kosher food to satisfy the cautious instincts of any observant Jew. It was heavy, and I was lugging it around for six hours. The views along the way were gorgeous, and the lake at the end, with glaciers and floating icebergs, felt like a taste of olam haba. Still, it was a real physical challenge for me, and at times I honestly didn’t know if I would make it.

But what got me through the experience was, surprisingly, a Baptist preacher from Ohio. He was hiking the same trail with his family and a few other families, and when he saw my yarmulke, he said he wanted to learn Hebrew. We got into a deep conversation. He told me that he’s the assistant pastor of a church with over 1,000 families, made up of pro-Zionist Christians, and we ended up comparing notes about the challenges and opportunities in our respective congregations. This conversation was more than enjoyable – it distracted me from the physical exhaustion. It helped me focus less on the difficulty and more on the meaning of the journey.

And the truth is, it wasn’t just the destination that I cherished – it was the journey itself. I found meaning in the pauses along the trail: the unexpected conversations, the practical lessons – like just how much food and water we really needed for a hike like this – and the quiet moments that challenged and shaped my perspective. It was during those stretches, not just at the summit, that I began to reflect more deeply on yetziat Mitzrayim and how God shaped us as a people through the winding paths and pauses of our own journey in the desert.

This week, as we reach the end of Sefer Bamidbar, we read about the final stage of our ancestors’ journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. Just before entering the Land, as we camp on the banks of the Jordan River, God instructs Moshe to pause and reflect: “Eileh masei Bnei Yisrael” – these are the journeys of the children of Israel. The Torah then lists every single place where Bnei Yisrael encamped throughout the desert.

Why list them all? What is the purpose of this seemingly tedious review? Is it to recall the good times? The bad times? Both?

The Rambam in Moreh Nevuchim explains that the purpose is to verify the miracle of our survival. Future generations might claim it was impossible for a nation to survive forty years in a barren wasteland. The Torah, therefore, lists the places to demonstrate the miracle of Divine providence, how God nourished and protected us in each place.

The Seforno offers a different perspective. The list is meant to praise Bnei Yisrael for following God’s lead in the desert for forty years, even in challenging and unfamiliar territory.

The Midrash Tanchuma, cited by Rashi, offers a parable: a king had a son who was sick, and he took him from place to place for healing. On their return journey, the king pointed out each location – “Here is where you had a fever; here is where you recovered from your injury.” Similarly, God wanted Moshe to document the places where Bnei Yisrael struggled and where He expressed His anger.

But the Midrash HaGadol gives this parable a more hopeful tone. God tells Moshe to list the places not only where the people sinned, but also where they received the Torah, where they kept Shabbat. It’s a full picture of the journey, both the failings and the successes. That’s the journey of life.

From the people’s perspective, however, it didn’t feel that meaningful. As Rav Hirsch points out, the Torah uses two different phrasings: “Vayichtov Moshe et motza’eihem le-mas’eihem al pi Hashem”—Moshe wrote their departures for their journeys, by God’s word—and “Eileh mas’eihem le-motza’eihem”—these are their journeys according to their departures. First motza’eihem le-mas’eihem, then mas’eihem le-motza-eihem.

Why the reversal?

Rav Hirsch explains that from God's perspective, al pi Hashem, each departure (motza) had a specific purpose, a massa, a mission. Every stop had a reason, a challenge, an opportunity. But from the people’s view, it was just mas’eihem le-motza’eihem. It was just another move. They were so focused on reaching the destination that they didn’t see the significance of the stops along the way.

We, too, often think this way. We want to "arrive" – to get to our goals, our milestones, our happy endings. But life is full of detours, of encampments. We must learn to see those stops not as delays or failures, but as essential parts of our growth.

There's a powerful story told about Rav Mottel Pogromansky. Shortly after World War II, he and a friend were on a train, planning to arrive at their destination well before Shabbat. But they got caught up in a deep Talmudic discussion and missed their stop. They disembarked late, in an unfamiliar town, with Shabbat quickly approaching. His friend panicked. They were nowhere near a Jewish community! But Rav Mottel calmly said, “A Jew is never lost. If we’re here, it’s because we’re meant to be here.” 

As it turned out, there was one Jewish family in that town. They had just had a baby boy the previous Shabbat, and though they had tried, they couldn’t find a mohel. When the man opened the door and saw the two strangers, he asked in disbelief, “Are you Eliyahu Ha-Navi?” Rav Mottel replied, “No, just a Jew named Mottel Pogromansky.” His friend, miraculously, was a mohel and had his equipment. The baby had his brit on the eighth day, on Shabbat. “See?” Rav Mottel told his friend. “We weren’t lost. We were sent.”  

We are so conditioned to judge our lives by whether or not we’ve reached our goals. But sometimes the stops along the way – those unexpected, inconvenient, or even painful moments –  are the most transformative. They teach us who we are. And they are not accidental. They are sacred.

And so, we arrive at the Nine Days, a period so many of us dread. No swimming, no meat, no laundry. It feels like a crummy time. But perhaps that’s exactly the point. The Nine Days are not about avoiding joy, but about embracing reflection. They call us to remember that our failures are also part of our journey. That our losses, our grief, our brokenness, are not obstacles to be ignored but chapters to be studied. They shape us just as much, if not more, than our moments of success.

Let’s not be afraid of that. Let’s not rush through discomfort just to get to the comfort. Let’s welcome the reflections of the Nine Days, the good and the bad, the sweet and the bitter, our national tragedies and the causes of these tragedies. They are all part of our national story.

And as I stood at the top of Iceberg Lake, with glaciers reflecting light onto the surface of the water, I realized that the beauty of the trail wasn’t only at the end. It was in the sweat, the weight, the effort, the unexpected conversation, and the lessons I learned along the way. The challenge was real, but so was the growth.

May we all learn to see every stop along our journey as a place where we were meant to be, and use those moments, especially during these Nine Days, to shape the people we are becoming.