There are certain stories that stay with us throughout our lives. For me, one of those stories has always been The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. I know I've written about it before, but I can't seem to help myself. It's a book I return to again and again.
Many years ago, when Krystal and I were still dating, she gave me a beautiful leather-bound copy for Chanukah. It remains one of my favorite gifts. Recently, that same book found a new reader when Levi decided to pick it up.
At first, his motivation wasn't entirely literary. His teacher had challenged the class to read 350 minutes, and Levi's response carried just enough rebellion to make me smile. He took pride in disappearing into his room and devouring page after page. What started as a challenge quickly became genuine interest. Before long, he was asking questions about Edmond Dantès, justice, revenge, and redemption. Then he wanted to watch the movie.
Actually, movies.
I had intended to show him the 2002 version, but somehow we found ourselves watching the 1970s adaptation first. Then we discovered the remarkable 2024 French miniseries. Finally, we circled back to the 2002 film.
What fascinated Levi most wasn't the story itself. It was the realization that each version told the story differently.
"How can they do that?" he asked.
The answer, of course, is that every storyteller brings their own perspective. The facts may remain recognizable, but the emphasis changes. One version focuses on adventure. Another highlights betrayal. A third explores justice. The same story can produce multiple narratives, each revealing something true while remaining incomplete.
That conversation stayed with me as I reflected on this week's Torah portion, Pinchas.
Parashat Pinchas contains several narratives woven together. It begins with Pinchas being rewarded for his zealous action at the end of last week's portion. Yet generations of commentators have wrestled with how we should understand that moment. Was Pinchas a hero? A zealot? A protector of the community? A troubling example of religious extremism? Our tradition preserves these questions rather than erasing them.
Later in the portion, we encounter the daughters of Zelophehad, who challenge existing inheritance laws and successfully argue for a more just outcome. Their story offers another perspective on leadership and courage, not through force, but through advocacy and moral conviction.
We also witness the transition of leadership from Moses to Joshua. Moses, the greatest leader our people had ever known, must accept that he will not enter the Promised Land. Joshua's story is not Moses' story. He will lead differently because every generation requires its own voice and its own approach.
The Torah could have presented a single, uncomplicated narrative. Instead, it gives us multiple perspectives and asks us to wrestle with them.
Perhaps that is one of Judaism's greatest gifts. We are not required to flatten every story into a single lesson. We are encouraged to ask questions, explore tensions, and recognize that truth is often more nuanced than we first imagine.
Levi's surprise at the many versions of The Count of Monte Cristo reminded me that maturity is not learning which narrative is right and which is wrong. It is learning that important stories often contain many layers, many voices, and many ways of seeing.
As we enter Shabbat, may we approach our sacred stories—and one another—with curiosity rather than certainty. May we listen for perspectives different from our own. And may we find wisdom in the understanding that sometimes the most meaningful truths emerge not from a single narrative, but from the conversation between many.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy Independence Day!
Danny Glassman