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
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
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