Balak: Seeing the World Through Trusting Eyes

Balak: Seeing the World Through Trusting Eyes
D’var Torah for Parashat Balak: Numbers 22:2—25:9
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s parashah is a study in irony. Even at the mention of its name, Balak, one can’t help smiling. After all, it’s a bit of a fantastic fairy tale, replete with a talking animal (move over Shrek and Mr. Ed—make room for the original talking donkey!). It’s all about a blind, stooped and corrupt seer who can’t see beyond the tip of his own nose, about an animal that sees angels, and about curses that magically turn into blessings.

Yet, there is also much serious business behind this seemingly simple tale. It’s also about fear and anti-Semitism. King Balak, ruler of the Moabites, a people who in ancient days occupied the south-eastern part of what today is Jordan, has heard of the miraculous power behind the progress of the Israelites. In the mere 40 years since they left Egypt as refugees, they have turned into a mighty nation of awesome proportions and strength. Balak understands that their power is not simply physical—mere armies cannot defeat them. Overcome by terror, Balak hires a mercenary sorcerer of international repute—Balaam—to cast an evil eye, a magic spell, a curse upon the Israelites.

Balaam, the blind prophet Balak hires, sets out on his mission, but along the way he is stopped several times. First by God, who tells him 1) not to undertake this mission; and 2), once Balaam goes anyway, to speak only the words God puts in his mouth. Still infuriated by Balaam’s veiled intent to curse Israel, God places an angel in Balaam’s way. However, only Balaam’s saddle animal—a she-donkey, often referred to in the English translation as an ass—sees this angel, who stands guard with a drawn sword. First the animal swerves off the road, causing Balaam to beat her. As the angel appears a second time, the animal veers into a hedge, scraping Balaam’s leg. That brings about another beating. The third time the ass sees the angel, she merely crouches in place, refusing to take another step. Once again Balaam—evidently not much of an animal lover—beats her.

The animal magically begins to speak, asking her master what made her deserve this punishment. Balaam claims she has made a fool of him (good reason to beat an animal!). The ass protests some more, and as God opens Balaam’s eyes, he can finally see the threatening angel. (No apology to the animal). Once again, Balaam is warned to proceed with caution—to speak only the words God puts in his mouth.

Brought by King Balak to an overlook point from which they can view the Israelites, Balaam begins his oracle, which—much to the king’s chagrin—turns into a blessing! Three times this transformation happens, culminating in the famous and exalted words with which we now begin our morning liturgy: Mah tovu o-halecha Ya-akov, mish’k’notecha Yisrael—“How fair are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.”

The intended curse has turned into an exclamation of the highest praise and admiration for the Israelites.

King Balak, frustrated and angry, sends the prophet home without paying him. Before leaving, however, Balaam scatters a few more blessings and curses all around, reminding us all that those who bless Israel will be blessed themselves, while those who curse Israel will find themselves cursed instead.


Mah tovu o-halecha Ya-akov, mish’k’notecha Yisrael—“How fair are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel!” As long as 2000 years ago, the early rabbis asked about the meaning of Balaam’s curse-turned-into-blessing. Was it simply that he opened his mouth with the intent of saying one thing—only to have his words come out exactly the opposite? Or perhaps he—the blind seer whose eyes were opened by God—saw something from his high perch that caused him to change his mind and turn the words of his intended curse into a blessing. And if so, what exactly did he see?

Rashi, the great scholar and commentator of the 11th century, says that Balaam, looking at the camps of the Israelites, “Saw each tribe dwelling by itself, not intermingling; he saw that the openings of their tents did not face each other, so that they should not peer into each other’s tents.” In a world full of gossip and malicious slander, a world devoid of faith and trust, where curses abounded, where fear, envy and jealousy made people spy on one another and seek hidden motives, Balaam saw another possibility. Here was a people so different from anything else he had seen so far that he was overcome with a holy sense of infinite possibilities. Here were twelve tribes perfectly organized into one nation, where one group respected the other’s boundaries and did not encroach. Here he saw people so mindful of one another’s inherent qualities that everyone was treated with equal dignity and respect. Here was a people who saw the Divine Image not only within themselves, but also within every living creature. They didn’t pry into each other’s lives or business. They didn’t need to. Each person was unique. Everyone was holy.

Today Balaam’s blessing is commonly understood to refer to Israel’s synagogues. Ohel—“tent”—has always represented not only one’s own dwelling in the desert, but also the Tent of Meeting—the place where the community and God could meet. Mishkan, another word for dwelling, likewise has come to denote the place of God’s presence (the Shekhina) among humanity. Our Reform prayer book is called Mishkan Tefilah—the holy dwelling place of prayer.

In fact, by turning this blessing into the opening prayer of our morning liturgy (the “Mah Tovu” as it has come to be known), the ancient rabbis help us focus on what really matters. The words of this beautiful prayer help us transform our dwellings—our homes, our houses of prayer, our workplace, and in fact any place where we find ourselves, no matter how humble—into holy places. “Mah Tovu” helps us focus on the holiness inherent in and around us. Its words (by which we can count a minyan—the minimum of ten adults required to hold a public service) turn any group of people into a holy congregation. Almost magically, Mah Tovu transforms the ordinary into the holy.

How ironic that this prayer, this blessing, was spoken by a non-Jew who was hired to curse our people! Balak, this week’s Torah portion, reminds us that holiness can be found everywhere. Balak teaches us that holiness is not a mystery. It’s within each of us, a potential that can be activated when we treat one another with the same dignity and respect we reserve for ourselves. Balak is really all about conquering fear through faith and love, not through might and curses. It really is all about turning curses into blessings.

If only we learn to see the world through the innocent, trusting eyes of children and animals!


©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Chukat: It Is the Law

Chukat: It Is the Law
D’var Torah for Parashat Chukat: Numbers 19:1—22:1
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion is Chukat, Numbers 19:1—22:1. These chapters contain some of the saddest and most thought provoking stories in the entire Torah. After a brief instruction about the mysterious ritual of the Red Heifer, the story gets off to a tragic start with the death of Miriam. According to the ancient rabbis, for as long as Miriam was alive, a well of water accompanied the Israelites throughout their journeys. Now that she died, this well dried up.

Then the people complain because of their thirst, and that can never lead to anything good. What happens next is crucial to the story—and in fact to the entire thread of Judaism.

It is at this point, in response to the people’s incessant mutterings, that God commands Moses and Aaron to speak to a rock and order it to give water. Instead, Moses picks up his staff and strikes the rock. Twice. Water does gush out, but Moses and Aaron are condemned for their disobedience and are told that as punishment they won’t be able to enter the Promised Land.

What exactly Moses and Aaron did wrong isn’t made so clear by the narration. Obviously the Torah wants us to think about it. Was it that Moses lost his temper? That he had anger management issues? That he disobeyed God? And were any of these so earth-shattering as to result in such severe punishment? How come Moses doesn’t get a second chance when the rest of the people do?

And what about Aaron? Not a word is said in the parashah about what he did wrong.

As always, the answers are hidden in the text itself.

Moses is ordered to speak to the rock. Moses may have been a stutterer, but his gift was words. More than any other prophet, Moses carried the word of God to the people. In his hands, the word became an Ark, the vessel in which God’s spirit dwelled. The word is God’s promise. It is holy. Yet, when told to speak to the rock, Moses instead turns on his people and mis-speaks, rebuking the Israelites with harsh words and anger. The breakdown he is suffering is complete. Through it he admits that the people—and perhaps God—have demanded so much out of him, that it might as well be arguing with a rock, demanding that it yield its water. Many times before he had felt desperation. This time it all became just too much for him to bear. At this moment, he lost the strength to be himself—the belief in himself, in his ability to continue bearing God’s word. Worse yet, he lost his faith in the strength of God’s word.

It was the loss of faith that led the ten spies he had sent out earlier to come back with a discouraging view of the Promised Land. They were punished with exactly the same consequences. Moses couldn’t receive any special treatment from God. His punishment had to be the same as theirs. It was the law.

And Aaron? What did he do wrong? Aaron was a master of self-control. When ordered to light the Menorah—the gold candelabra that symbolized God’s light—he did so with so much precision that not a muscle twitched. Not a drop of oil spilled. It was just so. Now he could do nothing but watch in horror as his brother fell. As Moses’s brother, his duty was clear—lift him! Strengthen him! Help him! Instead, Aaron merely watches as Moses picks up his staff and strikes the rock with it. Not once, but twice.

He should have intervened between these two blows. Aaron the High Priest, a man of peace, a true and loving brother, fails to help Moses. This is the very same Aaron who in last week’s Torah portion, armed only with his incense burner, “stood between the dying and the living,” putting a halt to nothing less than a plague! Yet for his own brother, he couldn’t lift a finger. That was his failure. He too at that moment lost his strength, his ability to act and do the right thing.

Each of these two brothers failed exactly where they were entrusted to succeed. Moses, the man of words, failed to speak God’s words. Aaron, who could save countless souls with his ministrations, failed to help his brother who had fallen right next to him.


We are all people of our words and actions. We are as good as our word. What we say and who define us to the world.

We all fail hundreds of time in maintaining our responsibilities. There are always consequences. It is the law. In Hebrew, it is Chukat. The law. The loss of one’s faith is serious matter, and Moses and Aaron could not be above the law

Yet there is one more treasure hidden in this Torah portion. As the story recounts the death of Aaron, it takes place on a mountaintop, in full view of the entire people. Moses takes Aaron’s priestly garments off his brother and has Aaron’s son put them on instead. Aaron dies, but not before his son becomes the next High Priest. This is the amazing lesson—a gift, really—which the Torah now gives us. For with their deaths, Moses and Aaron enable future generations to take their place. More people will now carry God’s word to the people. Generations of them. Schools and schools of them. More priests will continue bearing to God the people’s gifts—their thanks, complaints, prayers and blessings.

The history of the Jewish people does not die with Miriam, Moses and Aaron. It only begins with them and continues through the generations, each of us taking our place in turn.

It is the law.

Ken y’hi ratzon—may this be God’s will.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Of Leaders and Demagogues--Korach

Of Leaders and Demagogues
D’var Torah for Parashat Korach: Numbers 16:1—18:32
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The rebellion of Korach against Moses and Aaron was vividly captured in the 1956 epic Hollywood movie “The Ten Commandments.” The malicious Korach was deliciously portrayed by Edward G. Robinson, whose sneer was the very essence of cynicism.

But what exactly was wrong with Korach’s argument? All he wanted was fairness and an equal share of holiness for ALL the Israelite people, not only Moses and Aaron. After all, he posits, isn’t the whole community holy? Doesn’t God dwell in the midst of all of them? So, Korach continues, why do Moses and Aaron alone get all the glory and power? Shouldn’t some of that power be shared among others—for example, by Korach and his 250 followers?

At first, his argument seems valid. We need look no farther than Iran or Saudi Arabia to see the abuse that goes along with the totalitarian power that a religious oligarchy sways. True equality is only possible if everybody has the potential to be holy—not only the chosen few.

Korach’s defiant stance is both logical and based on precedent. Time and again the Torah calls the Israelites “A holy people.” Exodus 19:6 reads: “You will be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Deuteronomy 7:6 and 14:21 both read, "For you are a holy people to the Lord your God.” And, in Exodus 25:8 (among others), God commands, "Then have them make a sanctuary for me, and I will dwell among them.” Surely, then, all are equally holy, God dwells among us all—so why then do Moses and Aaron usurp all the power?

Moses listens to Korach’s argument and vividly demonstrates his frustration with it. Wisely, however, he doesn’t try to counter Korach personally. For a situation as heated and volatile as this, Moses is willing to let God do the arguing. And indeed, God does—as usual, not so much in words as in actions. In a terrifying and horrific scene, God causes the earth to open up under Korach, his supporters and all their families, swallowing them all alive. Then the earth closes up again, leaving no sign of the rebellious bunch. Total shock and awe.

But what is the lesson here? Is the point of this story simply that God will save those He chooses while destroying anyone else who dares ask why? We know that can’t be so. First of all, it rarely happens just so. And secondly, it is contrary to all the terms and conditions God had already agreed to in the past—not to act impulsively, not to destroy the innocent among the guilty, and to be ever mindful of the human tendency to err. The big lesson Parashat Korach tackles is leadership. In this portion, the question of what distinguishes true leadership from demagoguery is discussed and given a definitive answer.

In determining who the best leader is, first there’s the matter of vision. A good leader has to have vision—both of the goal and of the means of getting there. Moses consistently points onward, forward to a Promised Land, a land “flowing with milk and honey.” Korach and his band maliciously refer to Egypt as that vaunted land (chapter 16, v. 13). Korach’s intent is to lead the Israelites back to Egypt, back to the past, back to slavery, and so he accuses Moses of misdirecting the people. Reminds me a little of the suggestion offered earlier this week by journalist Helen Thomas (a suggestion praised in the Iranian press) that the Jews should go back, “To Poland and Germany... and everywhere else.” What Korach and Ms. Thomas failed to understand is that the Exodus, like the Holocaust, was a one-way ticket. Turning back was never an option.

The second requirement that this portion holds for a true leader is that he or she be able to inspire. Korach’s argument was that the whole people were already holy. That leaves them with nothing more to accomplish. With all their work done, there’s nothing to look forward to, no success to anticipate, nothing left to hope for. Korach’s philosophy could lead only to stupor—a state he would inevitably exploit on his own behalf. On the other hand, what Moses saw when he looked at humanity was nothing short of tremendous potential. It was Moses’s fervent wish that all the people would be holy. In Numbers 11:29, Moses calls out wistfully, “Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets, that the Lord would put his Spirit on them!” Whereas Korach claimed that all the Israelites were already holy, Moses saw their potential to become holy. The difference is that if we are already there, we have nowhere left to go! No way to continue improving ourselves, no way to improve the world. Later in the portion, when Aaron sees a plague breaking out among the people, he runs to the epicenter of the outbreak and stands “between the living and the dead,” stopping the slaughter by his very presence. It was a model for all healers. That urge to heal, to discover a cure, to bring enlightenment to the benighted, freedom to the enslaved—that’s what true holiness is. It is a potential that we can activate through our choices and actions. It’s a goal to aspire toward, to reach for. Now that’s inspiring.

We have the potential to be holy. We can become holy—when we follow God’s commandments, the mitzvot. When Korach quoted Exodus 19:6, he very conveniently left out verse 5: If you give heed to my voice, if you follow my covenant, then you shall be a holy nation, a nation of priests. Our potential holiness is always conditional; it depends on the choices we make.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

It’s your choice: D’var Torah for Shelach Lecha

It’s your choice
D’var Torah for Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13:1—15:41)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
June 4, 2010 22 Sivan 5750

This week’s parasha, Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13:1—15:41), is the mirror image—the reverse, if you will—of another portion in the Torah, this one from the first book, Genesis, chapters 12-17. It’s the part of the story where Abraham is called upon by God to go forth, to leave his home town and move to a place only God knows where, and which God will tell Abraham more about only after he actually gets there. That portion, of course, is “Lech Lecha.”

Now, before you let the gutturals get to you, shelach means “send forth.” Lech, on the other hand, means “go.” In this week’s portion, Shelach Lecha, it isn’t Moses who is told to go to the Promised Land. Instead, Moses is told to send 12 other men out there—all members of an elite leadership group among their Israelite tribes—to scout out the land and come back with a verifiable report.

Of the 12, 10 spies come back bearing unusually large clusters and collections of fruit unheard of in the desert: grapes, figs and pomegranates. In short, they say it is an uncommonly fertile and rich land. On the other hand, the spies also report that the land is densely populated, has highly fortified walled cities, and that it is defended mostly by an army of giants. In fact, they conclude, we felt like grasshoppers next to them. And quite frankly, that’s exactly what they saw us as too. Grasshoppers.

The People of Israel, barely a year after the parting of the Red Sea, become terribly dispirited by the spies’ report. They whine and complain bitterly and are about to stone Moses and Aaron. They plan to choose a new leader who will lead them back to Egypt, a place they call “A land flowing with milk and honey.”

Only 2 of the original 12 spies give the minority opinion. They—Joshua and Caleb—claim that with God’s help, the Israelites can indeed conquer the land.

Like Moses and Aaron, however, they too are booed down and set upon by a violent mob.

At which point God intervenes. Stop motion, everybody stop where you are. Here’s what’s going to happen because of your loss of faith: You are going to wander in the desert for 40 years. One year for each day the spies were out gathering lies about the land and your potential of conquering it. Only a new generation—your children, not you—will inherit the Promised Land. Period, end of discussion. 40 years, set, go.

“But why?” ask the Israelites.

Or rather, the Torah has us ask. What was our failure?

One answer has it that the people still were of slavish mentality. They were as yet unprepared to take the reins of responsibility, to free themselves, to be themselves.

Having lost vision and direction, the Israelites had become unable to act on their own behalf, incapable of defending themselves. They gave in to fear.

What the people needed forty years for was to regain their confidence. To learn how to be free.

But not only that. They also needed to learn how to ignite their faith. Their survival depended on physical strength as well as confident spirituality.

Abraham, back in Genesis chapter 12, has all the faith in the world. In response to God’s calling, he just picks up and goes, heading in the general direction that God tells him. Into the future, if you will. Does he use scouts? No, he goes himself, taking with him his family and as many others as he can. Remember Noah, who only saves himself, his wife, his 3 sons and their wives, and yet lets everything and everybody else drown in the Flood? Abraham does the opposite. He saves as many as he can and together, with him at the head, they all head into the sunset.

In this week’s portion, the spies sent forth by Moses don’t just lack confidence. They are young, they are strong. It isn’t confidence they are lacking in. What they lack is faith. Vision. They imagine seeing fearsome giants. Dragons! Evil sorcerers and witches! They fail to see in the grape cluster so big that it takes two of them to carry, symbolic evidence of their own promise and potential.

Faith is all about seeing the world through a different lens. It’s about seeing potential, not merely what is. It’s about what you are able to do and how you navigate through this moment and the next. Step by step, day by day.

As you head off into the sunset, what do you take with you? What should you take with you?

How do you survive 40 years in the desert?

Easy. The much harder question is how have we Jews made it through nearly 3700 years, not only 40; lost and wandering not only in one desert, but through every region and climate.

It’s through the power of faith. It isn’t enough to be as strong and physically prepared as one can be. It’s not even only about believing in yourself. It’s about being part of a mission. A mission of scouts, if you will, sent out to stake the future, to test out life, thanking God for the good parts but also asking for God’s help in making the other parts better.

Young men of 20 can lose belief and faith in themselves. On the other hand, an old man of 75 can just pick up and go, exactly as—and even more than—God had suggested that he do.

Lech Lecha: “Go forth, if you will.”

Shelach lecha: “send forth, if you will.”

The choice is up to you. With faith, you can go forth and see God’s help. Without it, all you can do is fall further and further behind. It’s your choice.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman