—Numbers 11:34
Herbert Plimpton was a confidence man of rare skill, a
master of deception who had turned trickery into an art form. Not that he would
ever call it that. No, in Plimpton’s eyes, he was a facilitator of financial
redistribution, a genius at transferring wealth from those who had it to
himself, who, naturally, appreciated it more.
For years, he ran schemes so intricate and polished that
his victims often thanked him while handing over their savings. The townsfolk
saw him as a well-liked, charming man with a peculiar knack for turning a
profit.
Then came the incident with Abramson, his quiet, methodical neighbor, a seemingly unremarkable accountant with an unexpected capacity for righteous indignation. Their quarrel started over something trivial, something about a misplaced hedge trimmer, but, like many petty disputes, it escalated with remarkable speed.
“I’ll ruin him,” Plimpton whispered, his voice laced with
the casual malice of a man who always delivered on his promises. And ruin
Abramson he did, through a web of falsified records and a fictional development
project. With the precision of a concert pianist, Plimpton orchestrated
Abramson’s financial collapse,
In the aftermath, Plimpton couldn’t resist savoring his
victory. “I warned him,” he said to his friends. “The fool challenged me, and
now he’s been properly instructed.”
But Abramson, unlike Plimpton’s previous victims, possessed
a keen understanding of human nature and the patience to apply it
strategically. While Plimpton celebrated, Abramson meticulously documented
every aspect of the swindler’s operation and presented his findings to the
entire community.
When the two men met again in the town square, Plimpton
said, with a smug smile, “I did exactly what I promised, and now you’ve been
ruined.”
Abramson adjusted his spectacles and replied with a thin
smile. “Not entirely accurate,” he said. “Yes, I’ve lost a good chunk of my
savings. But in return, I’ve stripped you of something far more valuable: your
disguise. Now, everyone knows who you really are. Your career as a confidence
man depends on people’s trust, and that trust has just evaporated. No one will
fall for your schemes again.”
Graves of Lust
They had manna, miracle food that fell from heaven
daily and tasted like anything you wanted. Not bad, all things considered.
But no, the Israelites wanted meat. Real meat. Grilled,
juicy, dripping fat. “Give us meat to eat!” they wailed, as if God had them on
some cruel diet (Num. 11:4).
This wasn’t hunger, it was taavah—lust. That
gnawing, gaping thing inside that says, “More.” It doesn’t matter what, just more.
Moses understood that this wasn’t about dinner. It was
about desire, pure and simple. A craving for a life with no boundaries, a
Vegas-in-the-desert fantasy where every appetite gets a red carpet.
So, God responded, not with a sermon, but with meat. Tons
of it. Enough quail to choke a camel. And then, just as they bit in, a plague.
Sharp, swift, deadly. They got what they wanted, and then some. Many died with
meat still in their teeth.
Moses named the place “Kivrot HaTaavah”—“Graves of
Craving.”
A name that’s certainly to the point, but on closer
inspection, a little odd. Shouldn’t it have been called “The Graves of Those
Who Craved”? After all, it was people who died, not the cravings.
But that’s just it. It wasn’t about the people who
succumbed to their cravings, but the cravings themselves. Moses named it
“Graves of Craving” because it stands as a lesson in the destructive power of
unbridled lust.
Like the exposed swindler, the consequences of
uncontrolled desires were laid bare for all to see. And so, we might say, it
was lust itself that was buried there.
