How Goodly Thy Tents: D’var Torah for Parashat Balak
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
June 23, 2026
In the second of this week’s double Torah portion, Balak (Numbers 19:1—25:9), the Moabite king Balak hires a famous spiritualist named Balaam to curse the Children of Israel as they are gathered and about to cross the Jordan into the Promised Land. The blind seer, however, though hired to curse, instead is moved to bless the Israelites: מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל— “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your tabernacles, O Israel” (Num. 24:5). These words, part of the most beautiful poem of praise ever written to, of, or for the Jewish People are now sung by Jews all over the world as they enter synagogues every morning.
I’ll get back to this poem shortly, but first, a few personal reflections.
I’m getting old. My grandson reminds me of that often—he’s young enough to say it as a normative fact of life, not as a put-down. But of course he’s right. Amazingly, I have become old. I’m old enough to remember stereo as well as mono albums, LP’s and the A and B sides of 45’s (at one point or another I even picked up a few 78 RPM’s). I remember when the Beatles played the Hollywood Bowl, and when people wore their underwear under instead of over—and certainly not instead of—their outer clothing. It is often the case that we look at the past with nostalgia, but it seems to me now that common decency was more common then. Of course, anyone with just a bit of objectivity will agree that discrimination and abuse were also common in those “olden” days, though—with the exception of Nazi and KKK rallies—for the most part they were more restricted to drawing rooms and locker rooms and not plastered all over social media.
I remember when antisemitism was confined to the fringe of society, when antisemites were shamed into silence and/or forced to face consequences for their hateful words and actions. But back then—and I’m talking about as late as the 1950’s, ‘60’s and ‘70’s—was also the time when being Jewish wasn’t something anyone wanted to particularly display publicly. You changed your name to fit the hat you chose to wear. As more and more neighborhoods became open and accepting, many moved out of “golden ghettoes,” taking along with them a smattering of jaded memories of earlier traditions, and perhaps a few relics of “organized religion.” Just watch the Dick Van Dyke Show, Season 5, Episode 22 (“Buddy Sorrell: Man and Boy,” https://youtu.be/m54VraF-1PM?si=a3q24blWdMRnal1d) to get a glimpse of the length some went to hide their identity, and the amount of courage and effort it took to admit that one was Jewish.
I’ve lived long enough to see many changes in attitudes—some for the better, others less so. Most of all, I’ve been shocked to realize that nowadays it’s OK to say anything about anyone, in their presence or not (the term we use for this kind of speech is l’shon ha-ra); to come up with horrible epithets and nicknames for anyone who doesn’t agree with your opinions or views; and, most of all, that it’s again become socially and politically acceptable and even respectable to gang up on the most ancient whipping-boy stereotype that ever existed: the Jew.
In the first half of the 20th century, ostracized and snubbed out of country clubs, hospitals and ivy-league colleges, American Jews built their own. In the second half, “freed” of the ancient social fetters imposed on us, we became involved in social liberation movements, in national and local ecological and environmental groups—many of which we started and developed. (Jews were disproportionally represented in civil rights organizations such as the Freedom Riders—activists who traveled by bus to the South to help fight anti-Black discrimination and secure Blacks the right to vote).
When all that began to change is not totally clear. Already in 1992, Ruth Wisse wrote her seminal book, If I Am Not For Myself: The Liberal Betrayal of the Jews. Today it seems that the process of banishing the Jews from liberal advocacy groups is at a peak not seen for nearly a century. The quick expulsion of Jews from the very organizations that we had founded or joined, gave our money—and often our lives—to, is astonishing (though probably not so much for people who can remember, or have studied, the similar process that took place in the first half of the 20th century. History does repeat itself).
But now back to our Torah portion.
From the heights of the Mountains of Moab, the prophet Balaam describes the Israelites: הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב – “A people that dwells alone, not reckoned among the nations” (Num. 23:9). Three thousand years ago this truth was already apparent, even to a half-blind prophet. Only we, the very people he so keenly observed, forget this, and evidently need the occasional reminder. We may integrate, assimilate, and even convert in order to fit in. Yet at crucial times such as these, our deepest identity is doxxed—searched out and weaponized against us by people still stubbornly holding on to ancient hatred and prejudice.
In the past, we found new worlds opening for us. In the 12th and 13th centuries, in the wake of crusades and expulsions from western Europe, the Jews migrated en-masse to eastern Europe. In the 1500’s, Turkey, the Netherlands, Greece, Italy, the Balkans and large swaths of northern Africa welcomed the exiled Sephardi Jews. Shortly after, the New World beckoned, and we followed. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, pogroms in Ukraine and Russia resulted in the migration of millions of Jews back to western Europe and America. Then, after the Holocaust, the newly established State of Israel accepted survivors of the death camps, a million and a half Jews robbed of their culture and identity by the former Soviet Union, refugees from all parts of the world—and—lest we forget—almost one million Jews who were expelled from Arab countries.
But where to now? Awakening to the precipitous rise of antisemitism today, Jews are looking again. Anywhere, elsewhere, other than where they are at the moment. But times have changed. Globalization has had an unexpected effect. There are no longer safe spaces anywhere for us. Shootings, firebombing, boycotts, the “verboten” warning signs are again found—not confined to Europe anymore, but rather everywhere, in every language and land. A meme recently posted on a site called Heimish Humor reads: “What you really have is a billion people who hate Israel for religious reasons trying to trick 7 billion people to hate Israel for humanitarian reasons.” It might not be statistically precise, but the general idea is spot on. Today, the hate, the ancient blood, money and power libels are dug up once again and put on display in public spaces, inciting violence. Today what we are witnessing is not only yet one more attempt to eliminate us physically, but also a concentrated campaign meant to take from us our identity, culture, and history.
However—and I turn us back again now to our Torah portion—the Moabite king Balak does not get his wish. Balaam does not succeed in cursing us. Instead, his blessings fortify us to this day. Israel’s war with Iran was called עָם כְּלָבִיא—Am K’lavie, “a people that rises like a lion” — a phrase also taken from Balaam’s song of praise (Num. 23:24).
Balaam concludes his poem with the words, “Blessed are they who bless you, accursed they who curse you!” We know this to be true, even if God’s work is often unseen until it is complete.
And yet today we cannot afford to wait for God’s miracles. Today we need to find our own strength—physical and spiritual—to make the blessing come true. We cannot allow ourselves to weaken. Our ancestral, national homeland—the State of Israel—needs to remain strong. It needs—and deserves—the most widespread support from Jewish People everywhere. That is the oath Moses exacted from the tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half the tribe of Menashe when they requested to establish their domicileseast of the Jordan River, outside the boundaries of the Promised Land (Num. 32:16-18). Like those ancient tribes, we cannot remain comfortable and at ease today, while our brothers and sisters in Israel are attacked daily by a cruel and bloody enemy, even as we ourselves are threatened by individuals or fanatic mobs that are ignorant of the history of the Arab-Israel conflict but refuse to learn.
For those of us living in the Diaspora, over the years we have learned to build homes for ourselves wherever we lived. From the start, we created communities that sought to serve both our own people and those among whom we lived. Our strength is still there: within ourselves and our community; in our synagogues, shuls and temples; in our brotherhoods, sisterhoods and schools; in the legal and social fabric which is the framework of our Covenant and social contract with God and all humanity.
Over the years—and I am approaching 77—I’ve learned many lessons. Having lived in Israel, the United States and now in Canada, the most important lesson before me now is this: My home—my eternal, non-geographic home—is in my tradition. It’s in our houses of prayer and our texts; in our history and culture; with others who share common hopes and anxieties; whose hearts break daily with anguish and fear as we hear more hate speech and witness acts of hatred carried out against fellow Jews, regardless of political views or associations. Just because we’re Jews by birth or by choice.
מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל: “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your tabernacles, O Israel!” The “tents” are our dwellings, temporary shelter from the elements, which the ancient Rabbis called holy because they were respectful of each other’s privacy and integrity; the “tabernacles” are the Mishkan, our houses of worship, the dwelling of the Holy Presence among us. These have always been our home, our safe space and source of strength, serving as our fortress as well as refuge. May they continue to be filled with joy, love and peace.
יְהוָה עֹז לְעַמּוֹ יִתֵּן יְהוָה יְבָרֵךְ אֶת־עַמּוֹ בַשָּׁלוֹם—May God grant us continued strength; may God bless us with peace.
© 2026 by Boaz D. Heilman
