The first half of Parashat Beha'alotecha completes the first part of the Book of Numbers, which describes the people's formation as an army on the eve of their journey through the desert. The second half of the parashah begins the second part of the Book of Numbers, in which we watch the people set out on their momentous trek toward the Promised Land.

No sooner do they set out, however, than we see them make a quick succession of mistakes, which continues into the following two parashiot. The tragic result of this downward spiral is God's decree that the entire generation perish in the desert and the entrance into the Promised Land be postponed for 38 years. This distressing drama contrasts sharply with the optimistic tone of the first half of the parashah.

In particular, Parashat Beha'alotecha opens with the commandment of kindling the Candelabrum of the Tabernacle. Aaron is told to kindle the lamps until the wicks catch flame and burn on their own, and, as we will see, this is an allegory for our purpose on earth: to kindle the flame of Divine consciousness until all of created reality burns on its own with the enthusiasm required to fulfill its Divine purpose. In this sense, kindling the Candelabrum encapsulates the entire purpose of creation—to make the world into God's home

How is it that such opposing passages are comprised within the same parashah? The question becomes especially pertinent when we consider the fact that the parashah's name—Beha'alotecha, taken from the commandment to kindle the Candelabrum—means "When you raise up," referring to the instruction to make the flame "go up" on its own. How does the image of raising the world's Divine consciousness until it is burning with it on its own fit with the moral decline that unfolds as the narrative progresses?

We can begin to understand this by recalling that the Divine mission to make the world into God's home applies to all aspects of reality—indeed, the only way it can be accomplished is if we transform all aspects of life into facets and elements of our relationship with God. It is not enough to feel close to God or teach others to feel close to God when we or they are explicitly involved in holy acts—learning the Torah and fulfilling God's commandments. Divine consciousness must permeate our mundane pursuits as well.

This attitude toward life can be acquired through practice, by training ourselves or others to overcome the natural tendency of material reality to obscure God's presence in our lives. Divine life then becomes second nature, ultimately as natural as the material outlook was before.

The more profound way of remaking our selves or others, however, is by revealing our innate Divinity. When we are made fully aware that God's existence is the only true reality, and all other reality is merely contingent on His reality, we uncover our true nature: as part of God's absolute reality, our consciousness is Divine consciousness. We discover that the attitude of seeing God everywhere and being aware of Him in everything we do is not second nature—something that supersedes our first nature—but is in fact our primary nature, our real self, that is even more deeply part of us than what we thought was our "first" nature.

This is the inner meaning of "kindling a wick until it burns on its own": we must strive to refine ourselves, others, and the world around us until everyone's and everything's intrinsic Divine nature is revealed, and therefore burns with Divine consciousness as part of its own inherent nature. Only when we have accomplished this have we truly and fully made this world into God's home.

This means revealing the inherent Divinity within our rebellions, as well. To be sure, mutiny (or, on a more refined level, thoughts of mutiny) must be quashed as quickly as possible, and if this requires that we "force" ourselves to acquire a second, Divine nature, so be it. But the more profound way of quelling rebellion is by exposing its true nature: our refusal to be satisfied with our present understanding of God and our revulsion against the shallowness of our relationship with Him. Our rebellion articulates our despair: "If this is all there is to the Divine life, I want nothing of it!"

Seen in this light, our rebellions—and the rebellions of the Jewish people so soon after they set forth on their journeys—are a cry for sincere return to God (teshuvah), for reestablishing our relationship with Him on a much deeper level than it ever was before.

This is one of the reasons why the Torah mentions Aaron as the one who kindles the Candelabrum, even though in fact anyone—even a lay person—is technically allowed to do so.1 Aaron was known for his unbounded love for all people, even those who had no redeeming qualities other than their being God's creations: "Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving all creatures and drawing them to the Torah."2 Aaron related even to people who were far from holiness, and lovingly raised their Divine consciousness, setting their souls aflame until they, too, were drawn to God's ways.

When we reveal the inner, Divine essence of even the lowest ebbs in our Divine lives, when we feel the least enthused by all things holy, we gain the ability to "kindle the wick" of reality "until it burns on its own," and the lowest as well as the highest points in life become part of the same, ongoing process of "kindling the lamps."3