July 7, 2025|י"א תמוז ה' אלפים תשפ"ה Not Power, but Presence: The Song of Miriam By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

You know Israelis are resilient because… In America: A siren goes off and people panic, lock their doors, and hide under the table. In Israel: A siren goes off and people grab their coffee, run to the bomb shelter, and start debating politics with strangers. By the time the missile lands, they’ve formed a WhatsApp group, planned a barbecue, and one guy's already offered to sell you an apartment – in the bomb shelter.

We all know that Israelis possess unbelievable resilience. Despite everything they’ve endured, they are still standing strong. As a nation, we are no strangers to crisis, and somehow, the deeper the crisis, the more resilient we become.

Bruria Wiesel Adini, head of Emergency Management at Tel Aviv University, recently studied what makes Israelis so resilient. Her June survey, during the early days of the strike on Iran, found high personal resilience, but national resilience was faltering. People believe in their own ability to handle hardship, but many are losing faith in the nation’s leadership and institutions.

Her research revealed four pillars of social resilience: patriotism, solidarity, trust in leadership, and trust in public institutions. Patriotism is still strong. But trust in leaders is at a low point. And when we lose that trust, national resilience weakens.

Which brings us to a powerful question: What kind of leadership builds resilience?

This week, we read of Miriam’s death. Moshe leaves a legacy of Torah, Aaron of priesthood. But what is Miriam’s legacy? She dies, and the Torah says almost nothing. No speeches. No mourning. Is that it?

Let’s look again.

We first meet her as a nameless sister watching mei-rachok, from a distance, as baby Moshe is placed in banks of the Yam Suf. She doesn’t panic. She watches. She waits. She plans. She ensures that he’s safe and that he’s returned to his mother to nurse him. Quietly, behind the scenes, she sets redemption in motion. This is not dramatic leadership. This is relational leadership, not about status or power, but presence, trust, connection, and care. She is anonymous, but indispensable.

And when she dies in this week’s parsha, something strange happens. The water disappears. Chazal teach that the miraculous well had existed in her merit. No one noticed while she lived, but when she was gone, they suddenly felt the loss.

How often do we fail to see someone’s impact until they’re no longer with us?

Miriam’s greatness was not in commanding armies or delivering laws. It was in quiet, unwavering resilience. Her name Miriam signifies that she was born into mar yam, bitter waters. However, she didn’t let the bitterness define her. She carried hope forward, even in the darkest times.

Chazal say she prophesied that Moshe would save the people. For 80 years, she believed. And when they crossed the sea, and her prophecy was fulfilled, she sang. It wasn’t just gratitude; it was the release of a lifetime of faith.

Her song is more than a moment. It’s a model.

And her leadership wasn't just nurturing, it was principled. In Parshat Beha’alotcha, she objects to Moshe’s separation from his wife. This wasn’t a personal attack; it was a profound statement about what it means to be a leader. Miriam believed that even the greatest leader isn’t above the human roles he plays, that being a prophet doesn’t exempt someone from being a husband. To her, leadership wasn’t about rising above others but staying connected to them. It had to be grounded in relationship, in compassion, in presence.

She wasn’t being rebellious. She was being a sister. From the day he was born, she cared for Moshe. Even when he became the leader of the nation, she never stopped wanting the best for him, not just as a leader, but as a person. Her critique came from love, and even when it went too far, Moshe didn’t respond with anger. He begged Hashem to heal her. Because he knew: she had always been his protector, his conscience, his moral compass.

And then she dies. And something breaks. Right after her death, Moshe cries out: Shimu na ha-morim, "Listen, you rebels!" But perhaps, he’s not just addressing the people. Maybe he’s crying out in grief: Shimu na ha-Miryam, “Listen, Miriam.” Same letters. Maybe he’s calling out for his sister. Without her, he loses his grounding. Her quiet presence had always helped him lead with compassion. Without her, he stumbles. He cannot connect with the people the way he once did.

This is Miriam’s legacy. She is the one who remains resilient in the bitterest of times, not by giving speeches or performing miracles, but by caring deeply, quietly, and persistently.

Yes, Moshe taught the people Torah. Yes, Aaron interceded between them and God through offering sacrifices and he fostered peace among the people. But Miriam connected with them. At the Yam Suf, the Torah says: Az yashir Moshe u’vnei Yisrael, Moshe and the men sang. Moshe says, Ashira la-Hashem, “I will sing to God,” and the people follow. But Miriam says, Shiru la-Hashem, “Let us all sing together.” She includes everyone. She empowers them.

That’s why, says Rav Moshe Neriah, the women of the desert remained spiritually strong. They refused to contribute jewelry for the Golden Calf, but rushed to give it for the mishkan. The wife of On ben Pelet saved her husband from joining Korach’s rebellion. Why were the women so spiritually strong? Because Miriam didn’t just teach the women. She danced with them. She walked with them. She cried and laughed with them. And because of that, they trusted her, and they grew spiritually strong.

So when we return to the question of Israel’s national resilience, of what strengthens or weakens a people, we must look to Miriam. Patriotism matters. Solidarity matters. But without relational leadership, without trust that leaders care, national resilience cannot be sustained.

And the same is true in our own lives. We don’t need to seek the limelight. We just need to be present. Present for others when they are facing their own mar yam, their own bitter waters. If we can show up, quietly and consistently, if we can carry hope, care deeply, and love honestly, then we too become a source of resilience. We, too, can sing songs of redemption when they finally come.

That is the legacy of Miriam. She taught us to believe. She taught us to care. She taught us that leadership is not about position. It’s about presence.

When we live that legacy, we bring hope to others.

And in doing so, we become part of her song.