Jewish history unfolded across many legendary mountains. Our story is etched into numerous mountaintops of joy and revelation.
On a desert cliff named Sinai—its exact location now lost—Hashem gave us the Torah. Years later, upon the twin peaks of Gerizim and Eival in northern Israel, we reenacted Sinai. This mountain covenant bound a new generation directly to the revelation their parents had witnessed on those same Sinai heights.
In the heart of Yerushalayim stands another fabled mountain named Moriah. There, Avraham offered Yitzchak, and Yaakov dreamed of a ladder stretching heavenward. That mountain became the site of the Beit HaMikdash—a house built by man to host the presence of Hashem. Moriah is the mountain where Jewish history first took shape— and the one toward which all of history returns. It is both our point of origin and our final destination.
Judaism was shaped on summits—where heaven touched earth and the timeless broke into the flow of history.
A Mountain of Farewell
But not all mountains in Jewish history are bright. One mountain, shrouded in sorrow, rises in what is now Jordan. From its summit, Moshe Rabbeinu caught a final glimpse of the Land he would never enter. It is a heart-wrenching scene. Moshe had once spoken to slaves in Egypt of a land flowing with milk and honey, and had led a liberated nation across barren deserts. Now he stands alone—lonely and barred from the very land he had promised and dreamed of.
He climbs Mount Nevo, not to arrive, but to gaze—to look upon a homeland he will never touch. A lifelong dream stretched out before him, just beyond reach.
It’s curious that Hashem speaks of Moshe’s final ascent while so much still lies ahead. This moment appears in Parshat Pinchas, immediately following the guidelines for dividing the Land of Israel—yet Moshe remains deeply engaged in preparing the people for their entry, only ascending the mountain much later.
He will still wage war against Midyan, negotiate with the tribes who wish to settle east of the Jordan, and deliver many more sections of the Torah. Most significantly, he will compose the great valedictory of Sefer Devarim—a second articulation of the Torah’s covenant.
Only at the very end of his life, after all is complete, does he finally climb the mountain to glimpse Israel. So why does Hashem command Moshe now to ascend, rather than waiting for that final moment?
Perhaps Hashem wished to gently prepare Moshe for the painful truth that he would never enter the land. The instant he stands atop that mountain, gazing at a homeland he will never walk, will be shattering. To soften this blow, Hashem offers advance notice. It is an act of compassion, allowing Moshe space to come to terms with the impossible. Moshe understands he will not enter long before he ascends that tear-drenched mountain.
A Selfless Gaze
Ironically, this recognition reshapes the end of his life, casting it in even greater heroic light. Until now, Moshe clung to the hope that he would eventually enter the land. He worked tirelessly, driven by the hope of experiencing the life he helped build in Israel.
Although the decree barring him from entry had already been issued, he believed it might be reversed. After all, he had prayed twice and saved the people from destruction. His confidence grew when he was entrusted with delivering the instructions for dividing the land—perhaps a sign he would personally oversee the process. Hearing that he will one day ascend the mountain to glimpse the land—but never enter—cements his fate. It becomes unmistakably clear: Israel is beyond his reach.
Yet heroically, he does not step aside. There are still wars to fight, laws to teach, and a final farewell speech to deliver. Moshe now labors selflessly for a future beyond his own lifetime. Though he will never dwell in Israel, every ounce of his strength is poured into preparing us to live there. His fate is clear, but his focus remains steadfast—working wholly for a tomorrow he will never see.
Faith in the Incomplete
Moshe’s final days stand as a metaphor for life in Israel. Life here is about building toward a future we may never see or fully experience. Israel is a land shaped by history, where each generation lays the foundation for those who come after. Though we may not witness that future, we are the builders who make it possible. Nevo is more than the mountain where Moshe stood—it is a mindset, a vision carried in the heart of every person in Israel.
We are slowly emerging from a grueling two-year war, burdened by mental and emotional fatigue, swallowed by confusion. Conflicting reports, opposing visions—each pulling us in different directions. We hear reports of a new Middle East—promises of change, new alliances, and shifting powers. Yet beneath these headlines, the reality remains stark: our enemies have not disappeared. They remain relentless, working tirelessly to defeat us. The landscape may be changing, but the threats we face endure.
Additionally, antisemitism has flared anew, menacing Jews across the globe, casting shadows over Israel’s diplomatic standing. Where are we headed? Toward a radiant, hopeful future, or a more tangled, uncertain one? It’s difficult to discern what to believe—or who to believe in. Should we lean toward optimism or brace for pessimism? The answer is unclear.
One thing is certain—this journey will take time. Short of divine intervention, full closure and perfect solutions are unlikely to come within our lifetime. We must not be discouraged or lose heart in the face of the long arc of life in Israel. Like Moshe standing atop Nevo, we labor for a future our nation will inherit—one we may never fully live to see. Unlike Moshe, we have entered this land. We have built, and will continue to build, knowing the final chapters we seek belong to a tomorrow beyond our own. We are the bricklayers of history—the builders of a shared destiny. The work will be finished, and we remain bound to its continuing story.
Life in Israel hangs on the edge of Nevo—caught between what has been and what will be.
The View from Nevo
Nevo is not simply a cliff to stand upon, a place to ponder selfless commitment to a future we may never witness. It is more than a mountain of vision—it is a mountain of longing. For thousands of years, Jews like Moshe have stood atop this peak, yearning for a distant land they never saw but carried deep in their imagination. For Moshe, that land was barred by divine decree; for generations of Jews, Israel was barred by exile and the harsh grip of fate.
The gates of Israel have now opened. No divine decree, no barrier of exile stands in the way. Yet still, many Jews stand atop Nevo, yearning to walk the land that Moshe could not enter. Life is complex, and not every soul who longs to cross that threshold will make the journey. But like Moshe, their yearning shapes them—Israel becomes woven into their identity and etched deep within their imagination.
Moshe does not stand alone on Nevo—we stand with him. Together, we gaze toward a future we build but may never fully enter. Together with him many Jews look toward a land they may never cross.
Nevo is still with us—a mountain of longing and faith—a place where every Jew stands, caught between hope and history.
The writer is a rabbi at the hesder pre-military Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, with YU ordination and an MA in English literature. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital, available at mtaraginbooks.com
