T

he word Naso that gives its name to 
this week’s parshah is a verb of an 
extraordinary range of meanings, 
among them: to lift, to carry and to forgive. 
Here though, and elsewhere in the wilderness 
years, it is used, in conjunction 
with the phrase et rosh (“the 
head”) to mean “to count.
”
This is an odd way of speak-
ing, because Biblical Hebrew is 
not short of other verbs mean-
ing to count, among them lim-
not, lispor, lifkod and lachshov. 
Why then not use one of these 
verbs? Why not simply say “count” instead of 
“lift the head”?
The answer takes us into one of the most 
revolutionary of all Jewish beliefs. If we are 
each in the image of God, then every one 
of us has infinite value. We are each unique. 
None of us is substitutable for any other. This 
may well be the single most important con-
sequence of monotheism. Discovering God, 
singular and alone, our ancestors discovered 
the human individual, singular and alone.
This was simply not a value in the ancient 
world, nor is it one in tyrannical or totalitarian 

societies today. The ruler might be deemed 
to have infinite value; so might some of the 
members of his or her court; but certainly 
not the masses — as the word “mass” itself 
implies. Most people were simply regarded as 
part of a mass: an army, a work force or a gang 
of slaves. What mattered was their total num-
ber, not their individual lives, their hopes and 
fears, their loves and dreams.
That is the image we have of Egypt of the 
Pharaohs. It is how the Sages understood the 
builders of Babel. They said that if a brick fell 
from the tower they wept. If a worker fell and 
died, they paid no attention.
Almost 100 million people died in the 20th 
century in Stalin’s Russia, Mao’s Communist 
China and Cambodia under the Khmer 
Rouge. We say of such regimes that people 
became “just numbers.
” That is what the Torah 
is rejecting as a matter of supreme religious 
principle.
At the very moment when one might be 
maximally tempted to see people as “just 
numbers” — namely, when taking a census, as 
here — the Israelites were commanded to “lift 
people’s heads,
” to raise their spirits, to make 
them feel they counted as individuals, not 

numbers in a mass, ciphers in a crowd.
In the course of my life, I have had several 
deep conversations with Christians, and there 
is one aspect of Judaism that they find very 
difficult to understand. The conversation usu-
ally turns to the central figure of Christianity, 
and I am often asked, do I believe that he was 
the son of God.
“I do indeed,
” I reply, “because we believe 
that every Jew is a son or daughter of God.
” 
What Christianity applies to one figure in 
its faith, we apply to all. Where Christianity 
transcendentalises, Judaism democratises. My 
conversation partners often think I am being 
evasive, finding a polite way to avoid answer-
ing the question. In fact, though, the opposite 
is true.
The first words God commands Moses to 
say to Pharaoh were, “My child, My firstborn, 
Israel.
” In Deuteronomy, Moses reminds the 
Israelites, “You are children of the Lord your 
God.
” “Beloved are Israel,
” said Rabbi Akiva, 
“for they are called God’s children.
” One of the 
key phrases of prayer, Avinu Malkenu, “Our 
Father, our King,
” encapsulates this in two 
simple words. We are all royalty. We are each 
children of the King.

All of 
Us Count!

Rabbi Lord 
Jonathan 
Sacks

46 | JUNE 9 • 2022 

SPIRIT
A WORD OF TORAH

