Activating Dormant Powers

Activating Dormant Powers

D’var Torah on Parashat Eikev (Deuteronomy 7:12--11:25)

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The harsh climate of summer in Israel often obscures the fruitfulness with which the land is blessed. By mid-morning the extreme heat and blaring, blazing sunlight make your head spin and your bones feel like dried, brittle twigs. Fields are parched and the hillsides are covered with thistles and thorns. Yet deep within the earth, the potential of renewed life is merely asleep. All it will take is the first few drops of autumnal rain for nature to wake up again.

Yet summer is also the season of ripening fruit. Open air markets teem with any number of varieties of grapes, apples, peaches, mangoes, plums and dates. Beautiful just-off-the-vine tomatoes and cucumbers vie for attention with barrels of green and black olives cured in brine and spices.

It is an unusually fertile land, yet it does not yield its fruit freely. It requires hard work and dedication, much love—and definitely the sweat of your brow.

This week’s Torah portion, Eikev (“whereupon,” or “since”), makes it clear that there is yet one more condition that needs to be fulfilled if the land is to give its blessed yield: Keeping faith with God.

One of the purposes of religion and ritual is--hopefully--to wield some influence on the unseen powers that seem to control our lives. The local deities of the ancient world were finicky and wily. They often found humanity distracting if not a downright bother to deal with. But the gods were as given to bribery and flattery as any of us human beings. A nice slab of meat went a long way, and a few gold coins often secured safe passage through some difficult life ordeal, especially if deposited in some powerful priest’s or king’s safe.

The Torah, however, sets forth a different equation. Desired consequences are not a question of random, blind luck, and certainly not the result of bribery. The genius of the Torah is in the brilliant understanding that righteousness—moral, ethical behavior—is the fertile ground in which success flourishes.

It would be observing the commandments given and accepted at Sinai that would guarantee the Israelites safe passage into the Promised Land, a “good land, a land with brooks of water, fountains and depths that emerge in valleys and mountains, a land of wheat and barley, vines and figs and pomegranates, a land of oil producing olives and honey, a land in which you will eat bread without scarcity, you will lack nothing in it, a land whose stones are iron and out of whose mountains you will hew copper” (Deuteronomy 7:7-9).

And what are those commandments? Simply, “to walk in all His ways” (Deut. 10:12). Just as God “defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger, giving him food and clothing” (Deut. 10:18), so must we. The persecution we felt on our own skin as strangers in Egypt and the many deprivations we suffered while wandering in the wilderness were teaching opportunities meant to sensitize us to the needs of the weakest members of our own society.

What this week’s parashah accomplishes surpasses the simple law that every action has an equal reaction. Its lesson is even greater than the easy recognition that morality bears good consequences, that a smile generates a smile, that one good deed deserves another. The teaching of Eikev has much broader consequences. Ethical behavior achieves more than merely internal security. Thousands of years ago the Torah already recognized that acting locally has global implications, that acts of righteousness impact not only society but also history and ecology. It is through the observance of God’s commandments of justice and compassion that the Israelites will become so strong as to overcome “nations larger and stronger than you” (Deut. 11:23). It was for that purpose that God had redeemed us from Egypt and devastated “the Egyptian army… its horses and chariots… [and] overwhelmed them with the waters of the Red Sea” (Deut. 11:4).

Eikev teaches that observing God’s commandments will have the consequences not only of strengthening the People of Israel and ensuring its survival through historical events, but also of activating the powers embedded within the very Land of Israel. The land is described as getting its rain from heaven, a land that God Himself cares for. Thus, as a consequence of our moral behavior God “will send rain on your land in its season, both autumn and spring rains, so that you may gather in your grain, new wine and oil” (Deut. 11:14).

It’s not hard to realize that actions and deeds have consequences. However, it’s a much farther reach to conceive of a broader outcome that reaches as far as heaven itself. Mystics claim that it is through subtle and mysterious incantations that our thoughts can reach the stars above. But it took the Torah to help us understand that simple acts of kindness and compassion can result in strength, peace and security; that respect shown to life all around us will lead to nature respecting us in return; that refraining from moral and physical pollution will result in the earth yielding its fruit and grain seemingly without effort. Moral strength equals physical strength.

The very simplicity of this concept makes it difficult to comprehend and even harder to believe. Yet evidence is all around us. The People of Israel is still here, a marvel of history some three and a half thousand years after our emergence from Egyptian tyranny and genocide. That and the renewed fruitfulness of the Land of Israel offer irrefutable proof of the accuracy of the axiom proposed by the Deuteronomist. It’s a promise the whole world might want to try. In this age of cultural upheaval and ecological disasters, what have we got to lose?

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Out Of the Iron Furnace: Va-et-chanan

Out Of the Iron Furnace D’var Torah for Parashat Va-‘et-chanan (Deut. 3:23—7:11) By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Fire burns. It destroys.

But fire is also transformative. It can sterilize and cleanse; it can make food edible. Fire can generate warmth and maintain ecological systems. It can be used for communication and propulsion. Fire can fuse elements, and fire can also purify them.

In this week’s Torah portion, Va-‘et-chanan (“I entreated”), the symbol of fire appears no less than 13 times. God appears to the Israelites through a great fire at Mount Sinai; God’s voice resounds from within the fire. Once God is described as “a consuming fire, a zealous God” (chapter 4, verse 24). And once, in verse 20 of the same chapter, we are told (in the wonderful King James translation): “But the LORD hath taken you, and brought you forth out of the iron furnace, even out of Egypt, to be unto him a people of inheritance, as ye are this day.” It is through the great force that fire is, that we perceive God, that we hear God’s voice, and that we are transformed—purified, if you will—to become who we are today.

The idea of transformation is essential in Jewish thought in general. We are expected to rise above the merely animalistic in us, to achieve a higher potential that is embedded within us, to let God’s image within us echo and reverberate. In the book of Deuteronomy, the theme of transformation develops further. It is Judaism itself that becomes transformed, evolving continuously as it is transmitted from one generation to the next.

As Va-‘et-chanan begins, Moses entreats God to rescind the harsh decree forbidding him entry into the Promised Land along with the rest of the Israelites. Adamantly however, God refuses and commands Moses to anoint Joshua as leader in his place. Why does God refuse to allow Moses lead the Israelites further? It is actually a blessing in disguise, at least as far as Judaism and the Jewish People are concerned. Many years ago, my college piano professor, a great artist by the name of Alexander Uninsky, told me that his ultimate goal was to enable me not to need a teacher any more. Of course, we never cease to learn; learning comes from many sources and directions. Yet, as long as we merely mimic and copy someone else’s model, we can’t achieve our own potential. Only once we learn to make our own choices and interpret for ourselves can we hope to create something new, something that reflects our own uniqueness and individuality, our own artistry. By turning down Moses’ plea to continue leading, God actually frees all of us to study the Torah and interpret it for ourselves, each generation for its own time and age.

What follows is nothing less than the essence of the whole Torah (5:6-21, 6:4-9): A reprise of the Ten Commandments, the Sh’ma and the “V’a-havta.”

“That is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary—now go and study it.” This famous saying by the first century Rabbi Hillel (admittedly—a comment over another verse…) could be easily applied here too. For it is these three sections that have transformed our people and, through our long history, made us who we are “as of this day.” That’s why they are repeated at this moment in the Torah narrative. It is through the study and performance of mitzvot—the Commandments—that we have linked ourselves with God through all eternity. It is through the recitation of the Sh’ma that generations of martyrs expressed their devotion to God and love for their Jewish heritage even as they suffered the burning fires of pogroms, the Inquisition and of the Holocaust.

Fire burns and consumes, but the Burning Bush that Moses saw at Mount Sinai was transformative. The fire that was ignited in his soul while yet in Egypt reached a momentous climax at that moment, as he linked his own life—and the lives of the entire Jewish people—with God’s will. As his life and career now draw near to conclusion, Moses frees us to pursue our own study of what it means to be God’s chosen people. Every age has its leaders and teachers, its Joshuas and Deborahs. But all they can do is inspire us to continue the ongoing process. No one can force us; we are free people.

When we stood at Mount Sinai we first perceived God’s might. It is through the ongoing study of Torah that our presence and participation in that majestic event carries on, mi-dor l’dor, from generation to generation.

And so we continue to emerge out of the iron furnace that was and is Egypt, always transformed, endlessly striving “to be unto God a people of inheritance, as ye are this day.”

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Five Minutes to Tomorrow --Devarim

Five Minutes to Tomorrow

D’var Torah for Parashat Devarim: Deuteronomy 1:1--3:22
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In memory of Ruth Baiuk, keeper of memories of the Holocaust, builder of Israel

Deuteronomy, the fifth book of the Torah, is comprised of orations or sermons given by Moses at the very end of the Israelites’ forty years of wanderings in the wilderness. The setting is the Plains of Moab on the eastern shore of the Jordan River, one month prior to the Israelites’ entry into the Promised Land, one month prior to Moses’s death, only days before a new beginning is undertaken. Moses addresses the Israelites at this point, reminding them of the special connection between them and God, and of the expectations God has of them throughout the generations.

Traditionally, the first portion of Deuteronomy (the Hebrew title of the book and its first parasha is Devarim--“words”--after the first significant word in the Hebrew text) is read on the Shabbat immediately preceding Tisha B’Av. The ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av is the day set apart as a commemoration of the major disasters of the Jewish people--principal among them being the destruction of the first and second Temples in Jerusalem. As such, this parasha acts as a yardstick, a moral standard by which the Jewish People have always appraised their existence. Our continuity is not a miracle; it is dependent on our own behavior. As long as we adhere to the terms of the Covenant between God and us, our survival is unquestioned. Moses’s teaching is like a living will, a charge given by a parent to his or her children. These are the moral and ethical lessons that the children hopefully will follow in order to ensure a good life--in this context signifying a meaningful and purposeful life.

Holding on to the constants of our religion--the values taught in the Torah and expounded by the Rabbis--is the key to the continuous existence of the Jewish People. In Devarim, Moses establishes a pattern of repeating and explaining the lessons of the past to each new generation. The principles contained in God’s Covenant may be constant and invariable, but it is each generation’s right and responsibility to interpret them appropriately.

The relationship between past and future is never an easy one. There is always tension between what we hold on to and what must change. Deuteronomy at times seems adamant and even fundamentalist--yet change and transformation are always possible. In later chapters, the book calls for a complete elimination of competing religions; simultaneously however, it also sets rules of warfare that are enlightened not only in context of older, more barbaric times, but also for today. Capital punishment may be the penalty for some acts (such as murder and rape--even showing disrespect to one’s parents!), yet its application is severely hampered by an ever-increasing legal complexity that will eventually lead to the abolition of death penalty as a legal consequence.

Deuteronomy thus acts as a bridge. In an immoral and possibly amoral world, it gives us the opportunity to change things, to bring goodness and even holiness into our lives. Deuteronomy charges us to live, but not a life that is without meaning and purpose. Through these final sermons, given shortly before his death, just days before the Israelites enter the Land of Israel, Moses teaches us to see ourselves through Heaven’s eternal eyes. We may be appalled by what we see at first, but as we learn to connect with the Divine force that exists both within and far beyond ourselves, we transcend our baser instincts. Deuteronomy reminds us of the horrors of the past from which our people emerged victorious. The process of studying its messages enables us to rise above the muck that often seems to surround us and to turn into the “mensch,” the amazing crown of creation that we were given the power to become.

It’s a most fitting bridge to a better tomorrow.

© 2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Inherent Values: Lessons Learned Along the Way

Inherent Values: Lessons Learned Along the Way
D’var Torah for Mattot/Mass’ei: Numbers 30:2--36:13
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

With this week’s double portion, we close the book of Numbers. One would assume that the concluding chapters would contain some of the most valuable lessons, and that is indeed the case. The teachings of these chapters center on the theme of personal and collective responsibilities.

Chapter 30 begins with a woman’s responsibilities with regard to vows. Realizing that in the ancient world (and, sadly, still so today) women’s rights were severely curtailed, the Torah recognizes a woman’s right to make and uphold personal vows. Significant males (a father or husband) may still have the right to overcome--or disavow--these oaths, but the woman’s independent will is recognized. Unless she is forced to break her vow, she must uphold it; yet she is forgiven if she is forbidden to complete the vow. This logic is behind the halakha (Jewish law) that states that if a person is forced to break a commandment or vow, he or she is not to be held accountable for the sin. Men as well as women are thus recognized as equally accountable for the vows they make to God. Both have the same intrinsic value before God, even if society unfairly places limitations on women’s rights.

Communal responsibility is addressed in chapter 32. As the Israelites complete their approach to the Land of Israel, two and a half tribes (Reuben, Gad and half of the tribe of Manasseh) ask Moses for permission to remain on the eastern shores of the Jordan River. The land there is good for their vast flocks and herds. In verse 16, they lay out their plans: “We will build sheepfolds here for our cattle, and cities for our little ones.”

Moses reminds the tribesmen of their priorities and responsibilities. First and foremost must be the need to stand by the rest of the Israelites in their collective effort to settle in the Promised Land. Why should the families of Reuben, Gad and Manasseh settle in comfort while their brethren carry on the struggle of the whole people? And while he’s at it, Moses reminds the tribesmen of the correct order of their stated priorities. In their request, they mentioned first the cattle, then their children. The reverse, however, is the correct order. After the battle for the Land of Israel is complete, Moses tells them, then and only then may they go back to their holdings on the eastern shores of the Jordan and build cities for their young and sheepfolds for their cattle. The first responsibility is towards the whole people; then come the children; and finally the material possessions. That’s the correct order which they must adhere to. The tribesmen agree to the deal, and Moses is mollified.

For thousands of years Jewish communities existed all over the known world. Trade routes took us as far as China, Yemen, Spain and Germany. The promise of an easier, more comfortable life held special attraction--no matter the occasional anti-Semitic riots or higher taxation that we had to endure. Yet Moses’s lesson in parashat Mattot (“Tribes”), namely to support those Jews living in the Land of Israel, was always taken seriously. Emissaries from Israel traveled to every Jewish community around the globe to raise funds for the impoverished communities living in the Holy Land. To this day, the existence of Israel is largely dependent on the unity of the whole Jewish people. Our responsibilities have always been to our families and our local communities; yet no less so is our obligation to support and be there for our brethren in the Land of Israel. This truth was obvious to Moses 3200 years ago; it’s still true today.

Parashat Mass’ei (“Travels”) begins with a recounting of the 42 stops the Israelites had made along their route from Egypt to Israel. This itinerary is something like a travelogue, a reminder of where we’ve been along the way. Each stop had its lesson: Here Miriam was stricken; here the Israelites rebelled; here they were given the manna, and here Aaron died. But above all, overarching all these lessons is the big teaching that comes in chapter 35: The creation of Levitical Cities. Along their travels, the Israelites witnessed (and sometimes gave in and participated in) the immoral practices of other nations. One of the most horrible of these was the custom of blood vengeance, still practiced to this day in the Middle East. Lex talionis is justice in its simplest and most primitive form: A murderer’s life was forfeit, no questions asked. What the Levitical Cities created was a place of refuge and a chance to appeal. Not every suspect is a murderer; not every killing is bloody murder. Justice is complex and must be accompanied by due process. Justice is one of the greatest teachings of the Torah, and it is restated in all its complexity at this point in the book of Numbers in order to keep it front and center in our consciousness.

The final chapter of Numbers returns us to the Daughter of Zelofehad. Their case was stated last week: It was the case that determined the rights of women to inherit property. Again as at the beginning of Mattot, the chapter pleads the case of some of the weakest members of society--women. This chapter forms another bookend, figuratively and literally, reminding us of the inherent value of each and every human being. Patriarchal societies make it too easy to neglect and forget this essential value. But it was women who were responsible for keeping Moses alive to begin with. Now it was women who reminded Moses of their significance to the collective life and heritage of the entire Jewish people.

“Kol Yisrael ‘areivin zeh ba-zeh”--all Israel are responsible one for another, teach the ancient rabbis. It is all too easy, in the life-long struggle for existence, to forget that others around us have equal rights and equal privileges. It is all too easy to think only of ourselves and our needs. This week’s double portion, Mattot/Mass’ei, reminds us that as Jews we have greater responsibilities and higher goals. Our tasks do not end with supplying our own needs, or even those of our children and businesses. There is the wider community around us, and ultimately the Jewish people. In serving God, if we serve only our own needs, we fall short. We are, after all, one people. We may be separated by space and time, but there is something greater than all that which unites us all. In this great puzzle, every piece counts. The moment we forget this, we might as well give up and disappear. But as long as we remember the hard-earned lessons we learned along our history, as long as we keep in mind the huge truth that each of us has the same value in God’s eyes, that each of us counts and matters in this huge universe, then our existence warrants continuity.

Those are the lessons of the Book of Numbers, the fourth book in the Torah.

© 2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Pinchas: From the Wilderness To the Future and Beyond!

From the Wilderness To the Future and Beyond!
D’var Torah for Parashat Pinchas: Numbers 25:10-30:1
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In honor of Hannah's 15th bat-mitzvah anniversary, with love and admiration from her Abba.


With this, the nearly last portion of the book of Numbers (next week’s will be a double-portion), proper closure to the book is set up.

As B’midbar commences, Moses is ordered to take a census of the Israelites. Now, 39 years later, he is commanded to take yet another census. The two censuses form bookends, a framework for what happens within. The main purpose of each census is to form an army. Yet there are also essential differences between them. To begin with, with the exception of Moses himself, and of Joshua and Caleb—the two faithful spies from an earlier portion (Sh’lach Lecha)—this latest count includes only the Israelites who were born in the Wilderness. As foretold in Sh’lach Lecha, the generation that was born in Egypt has died out by this point.

Secondly, whereas in the beginning of the book, the Israelites are physically arranged around the Mishkan—the Tabernacle—here the focus is not inward but rather forward. The purpose of this second army is not merely spiritual or defensive; its goal now is going forward and taking possession of the Promised Land.

Many commentators have pointed to these differences and remarked on the transformation that the Israelites had undergone in the 39 years. The thrust of the book’s teaching has been the infusion of holiness into ordinary life. Its lessons were hard-learned. Plagues, fires and other catastrophes befall the Israelites whenever they fail to learn the appropriate lesson. Now they finally may be ready.

Yet the fact that these morals are learned and internalized does not ensure their continuity. Each generation must learn and relearn them for a specific time and place. Transmission of the Torah’s teachings cannot be taken for granted. Memorization is not good enough, and brainwashing is no substitute for questioning and redefining. In three separate sections, this week’s Torah portion, Pinchas, deals with this very issue, the ever important subject of continuity.

First to be addressed is the question of spiritual leadership.

The story of Phineas—in Hebrew, Pinchas—is the one in which the role of the High Priest is ordained by God as hereditary. It is a troubling story. In his zeal for God, Pinchas, Aaron’s grandson, murders a couple for engaging in a public act of fornication. His murderous act, no matter how religiously motivated, is hardly a peaceful one. Yet God and the Torah praise Pinchas, and God rewards Pinchas by granting him a “covenant of peace,” and a promise that his descendants will always be priests.

The rabbis are not so happy with this conclusion to a violent story. Zealotry for God is not a harbinger of peace. It never was; it never will be. Even the Torah itself seems subtly to comment on this truth. The story of the vengeful Pinchas is broken between two portions (it begins in last week’s parasha, Chukat, and ends with this week’s reading). Additionally, in the Torah scroll, the term for “covenant of peace,” brit shalom, is traditionally scripted with a broken letter vav in the word shalom (Num. 25:12). These two breaks are commonly interpreted as teaching that peace, when brought about by an act of violence, is never a whole peace—it always has brokenness in it, always carrying within it the potential to break out into violence once again. Eventually, of course, the role of spiritual leadership held by the priests will come to an end, terminating not only hereditary succession to the position but also bringing closure to what many see as the perpetuation of wrongful behavior.

As the story of the parasha continues, Moses obeys God’s command to count the Israelites and organize them into a victorious army. At the same time, however, he is told to ordain Joshua as his follower as leader of the People of Israel. Joshua is not a spiritual man. He is a general, a warrior, hardly the gentle visionary that Moses is. Yet Moses, placing both his hands on the younger man, transfers to him all of his abilities—the ordinary as well as the sacred. Joshua may be an ordinary man, but he will be the one to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land. It will also be Joshua who will initiate the practice of reading the Torah publically among the Israelites. Continuity in this case is not hereditary; rather, the best qualified individual is chosen for the position.

The last transition described in this portion revolves around the laws of inheritance. The story is told of five women, daughters to a man named Zelofehad. Their father had died leaving no sons. Now, as the Promised Land is about to be apportioned among the tribes, would his share be lost? The rightful alternative, as Zelofehad’s daughters point out to Moses, would be to include them in the tribal inheritance, rather than reduce them to dependence or homelessness.

Though the rights of women to inherit property do not originate in the Torah—similar laws appear in law codes 500 years or more prior to the Torah—in this portion the women’s claims are based on previous laws issued by Moses and God. In other words, their question is one of precedent and interpretation. As they see it, the laws of the surrounding nations already guarantee them their rights of inheritance; now would God’s law—the law of Israel—do the same? Their intent is not to force Moses to comply with pre-existing customs of other nations. They only request that he widen the reach of God’s law, extending it more equitably. Their hope is that Moses will interpret its meaning in such a way that it would pertain to women as well as to men.

The contribution of Zelofehad’s daughters—who are named in the Torah, sign of their importance and eternal value to our tradition—goes beyond ensuring the rights of women within the Jewish tradition. Their actions establish a process that makes it possible for Jewish law to continue to evolve. The continuity of the law thus becomes the responsibility—“the porterage,” in the words of Torah—of each of us, men and women alike. It isn’t merely through obeying the Commandments that we establish God’s holiness. It is through the process of adapting and interpreting the word that we give it on-going life.

Zelofehad’s daughters thus establish a new precedent in our religion, one that continues to this day.

With these stories, the book of Numbers both closes and opens a new chapter in Jewish history. Authority has been transferred to a new generation. Through the three examples of Pinchas, Joshua and Zelofehad’s daughters, the evolution of our values, ideals, customs and laws is established as an ongoing process. Perhaps a glimpse into the future results of this process would be valuable at this point.

Pinchas’s violent act of zealotry will be praised by the rabbis (they can’t contradict God and the Torah!) but at the same time, the rabbis of the early 1st century will embark on a process that will result in the complete elimination of the death penalty. Moreover, zealotry will no longer be accepted by mainstream Judaism as a social norm, let alone as an act deserving of God’s blessing. Likewise, war will also be curtailed. Many laws will ensue that will limit both the types of warfare Jews may engage in and the behavior of Jewish soldiers in war—laws that are the basis to this day of the extraordinary moral code followed by the Israel Defense Force, taharat haneshek, or “purity of arms.”

Pressing on into the future, taking with us ancient laws and customs, infusing the ordinary world with a sense of the sacred —these are the lessons of the book of B’midbar, “In the Wilderness.” Within this forward surge, the contribution of Zelofehad’s daughters cannot be overstated. What they taught us is that, in addition to carrying forward our traditions, it is also just as essential to interpret God’s laws for an ever-changing present. These five women established for all time a process which empowers people to understand God’s word in terms they can comprehend and live by. Memorizing and quoting isn’t enough. Since those ancient days so long ago in the desert, it has been the right and responsibility of each generation to interpret God’s word for its own time. We do not live in the past, nor do we abide by outdated laws that may have been right for past generations. The 21st century, like every new day, brings its own requirements and conditions. We carry past traditions with us, but we make them proper and suitable for our needs today. That is the legacy of Pinchas, Joshua and Zelofehad’s five daughters.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

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