The Israelites stand at the precipice of entering the land (Deut. 11:29) and face the immense challenge of establishing a stable, thriving society. The dramatic shift from a nomadic society protected by God鈥檚 presence and encamped near the Tabernacle, to an expansive polity, posed profound agricultural, social, political, and religious challenges addressed in the parashah.[1]

It is significant that this foundational moment is framed by the notions of choice and decision. Good legislation is a necessary component of a thriving society 鈥� one of the primary preoccupations of Deuteronomy. But a legal system that is good 鈥� comprised of God鈥檚 commandments 鈥� is not sufficient. A guiding ethos must undergird the choice to do what is right and good. Ethics is thus a central preoccupation of Deuteronomy, as well.

If it were easy to create a stable, just, thriving society, there would be no need to emphasize choice. However, it is natural for societies to organize around scarcity, competition, and the pursuit of power for survival, as in the 鈥渟tate of nature鈥� described by political philosophers. Deuteronomy thus emphasizes that the good life 鈥� even in a well-organized society marked by an excellent legal code 鈥� must be repeatedly chosen. Dilemmas abound between competing desires, needs, and values. A broader ethical vision serves as a guide in those ever-present difficult moments of decision.

The choice presented at the beginning of Parashat Re鈥檈h is presented both in the second person singular (谤别鈥檈丑) and the second person plural (lifneikhem). R. Jacob Ben Asher (13^th century) argued that the singular-plural doubling is significant (Baal Ha-Turim, Deut. 14:1). The good life requires coordination among the individual and the collective.

But what guides our choices? In addition to legislation, Deuteronomy is filled with programmatic statements that provide overarching norms to guide our choices more broadly.

For example, Deuteronomy, including this parashah (at Deut. 13:5), is the primary locus of the concept of 鈥渨alking in God鈥檚 ways鈥� (vehalakhta bidrakhav). From the Talmud to medieval and modern philosophy Imitatio Dei 鈥� imitating God 鈥� has been a central component of 黑料社 ethics, emphasizing virtues and ethical acts ascribed to God in biblical narrative (e.g. Talmud B. Sotah 14a, Shabbat 133b).

Ethics is often associated with an orientation toward the other. The infinite worth of all human beings, foundational to ethics, emerges with the creation of the human being in the image of God. The image of God is also found in the self, and there is an intimate interrelationship between self-worth and the worth of all others. This interplay 鈥� between an orientation toward the other and the preservation of self-dignity 鈥� lies at the heart of 黑料社 ethics.

Parashat Re鈥檈h gives unique expression to the importance of a theologically-informed fundamental sense of self-worth, at Deut. 14:1: 鈥淵ou are children of the Lord your God 鈥� you shall not cut yourselves (lo titgodedu)鈥� [in mourning] over the dead.鈥�

In Pirkei Avot, R. Akiva identifies this verse as one of three essential theological-ethical statements in the Bible (Avot 3:14).[2] The verse includes a broader value statement that results in a norm. The broader concept is the idea of being the children of God, which dignifies the 黑料社 people, who must, in turn, preserve their own dignity and self-worth (R. Samson Raphael Hirsch [19^th century], Commentary on the Pentateuch, Deut. 14:1). The norm is a commandment against self-harm. In moments of crisis, when one feels broken, there is a temptation to externalize and literally embody that brokenness.  

In the development of 黑料社 law, two distinct commandments emerged from the single statement 鈥測ou shall not cut yourselves.鈥� The first is the principle against physical harm to the body of the individual. The second, derived from rabbinic exegesis (Talmud B. Yevamot 14a), is a prohibition against dividing the body politic into polarized factions governed by separate legal courts. Polarization emerges at moments of profound crisis within the polis, where the temptation becomes great to display this brokenness by fracturing fundamental institutions 鈥� creating separate legal frameworks. R. Judah Loew (Maharal) of Prague (16^th century) noted that extreme civil discord fractures the collective, and the individual citizen, too, feels 鈥渁s if鈥� their own 鈥渂ody is broken apart鈥� (Gur Aryeh on Deut. 14:1).

In Deut. 14:1, something about being God’s children is a call to the individual and the collective to remain whole, even 鈥� especially 鈥� when brokenness abounds everywhere. Being God’s children is an unconditional status (R. Meir’s position on Deut. 14:1, Talmud B. Kiddushin 36a) that implies being loved and valued always. This knowledge is central to the pursuit of the good life.

Being God鈥檚 children is always simultaneous with being created in God鈥檚 image alongside all creatures (Avot 3:14). An ethic of self-preservation is intimately intertwined with an ethic of the dignity of all. Neither can be forgone if a society and the individuals who comprise it are to have any hope of achieving the 鈥済ood life.鈥�

In Parashat Re鈥檈h, at the precipice of forming a stable and permanent civil society in the promised land, the civil and political founding is accompanied by an ethical founding. The call to self-dignity and self-preservation of Deut. 14:1 is immediately followed by a call to holiness: 鈥淔or you are a holy people unto the Lord, your God鈥︹�� (Deut. 14:2).

These verses transport the Israelites back to Leviticus 19, another founding moment of 黑料社 ethics. 鈥淏e holy, for I the Lord your God am holy鈥� (Lev 19:2) is an earlier articulation of the notion of imitatio Dei 鈥� a call to a life that mimics God鈥檚 holiness. Leviticus 19 also includes the prohibition against self-harm (19:28) as well as the command to 鈥渓ove the neighbor as yourself鈥� (19:18) and its parallel command to 鈥渓ove the stranger as yourself鈥� (19:34).

Parashat Re鈥檈h opens with the rallying cry of the second half of Deuteronomy 鈥� the call to choose 鈥渢he blessing.鈥� Central to the good life is a deep sense of self-worth, self-dignity, and a commitment to self-preservation. This follows from being the beloved children of God. A thriving community also requires an ethos of the dignity of neighbor and stranger, also created in the image of God. At times of crisis, there is a temptation both to fracture the community and overlook the dignity of the other. It can feel impossible to choose the 鈥渂lessing鈥� and 鈥渢he good.鈥� The concept of choice was developed in Deuteronomy at a crucial foundational moment. At the cusp of a new life, fear of the unknown and awareness of the profound challenges that lay ahead were countered with the formulation of guiding values and a persistent belief in the power to choose.

[1] The geographical distance of a centralized Temple would pose agricultural questions about food supply and meat consumption (e.g. Deut. 12:20ff). The risk of structural poverty called for rigorously applied social policies (Deut 15:1-18). Absent the constancy of the divine presence of the wilderness, charismatic demagogues who might sway the people would need to be opposed (Deut 13:2ff).

[2] The others are Gen. 9:6 (prohibiting murder on account of the creation of the human being in the image of God), and Prov. 4:2 (declaring the Torah a good teaching not to be forsaken).

As part of Moses鈥檚 series of sermons that we read throughout Deuteronomy, and his persistent plea that the Israelites remain faithful to God and the covenant, here, Moses imagines a future when the Israelites will have settled in the Land of Israel. At that time, they will enjoy all the benefits of the fertile land, and in Deuteronomy 8:10, we read:

讜职讗指讻址诇职转指旨謻 讜职砖指讉讘指謶注职转指旨 讜旨讘值纸专址讻职转指旨謾 讗侄转志讛 讗直诇止-讬讱指 注址诇志讛指讗指芝专侄抓 讛址讟止旨讘指謻讛 讗植砖侄讈芝专 谞指纸转址谉志诇指纸讱职變

When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the ETERNAL your God for the good land given to you.

This is the verse referenced in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Berakhot 21a, as the source for the commandment to recite birkat hamazon.

讗指诪址专 专址讘 讬职讛讜旨讚指讛: 诪执谞址旨讬执谉 诇职讘执专职讻址旨转 讛址诪指旨讝讜止谉 诇职讗址讞植专侄讬讛指 诪执谉 讛址转旨讜止专指讛 鈥� 砖侄讈谞侄旨讗直诪址专: 状讜职讗指讻址诇职转指旨 讜职砖指讉讘指注职转指旨 讜旨讘值专址讻职转指旨状.

Rav Yehuda said: From where is the mitzva by Torah law to recite Grace after Meals, derived? As it is stated: 鈥淎nd you shall eat and be satisfied and bless the Lord your God鈥� (Deut. 8:10).

While the elementary school students I mentioned above are happy to recite birkat hamazon, I have found that as kids get older (think of pre-adolescents approaching b鈥檔ei mitzvah at 12 or 13), they are often less inclined. Through my many years of teaching middle school students, more than one student has asked me hard and critical questions about 黑料社 traditions we practice in school, including, 鈥淲hy do we have to say birkat hamazon?鈥�

While it is developmentally appropriate for children at that age to question the adults in their lives, I think the question about birkat hamazon holds more than just a push back against authority. After all, in our parashah, Moses pointed to a time when the Israelites would be well fed, so isn鈥檛 it natural for them to feel thankful? Why do we need a commandment to say these blessings after eating? More than that, middle schoolers really don鈥檛 like being told how to feel. I understand their annoyance: Why are you commanding me to feel thankful? If I get what I need, and my tummy is full, I will feel it.

The answers to these questions can also be found in Parashat Eikev. Moses鈥檚 imagined future includes a description of people whose needs are met and who become self-satisfied. We read in Deuteronomy 8:12鈥�14:

驻侄旨谉志转止旨讗讻址謻诇 讜职砖指讉讘指謶注职转指旨 讜旨讘指转执旨芝讬诐 讟止讘执譀讬诐 转执旨讘职谞侄謻讛 讜职讬指砖指纸讈讘职转指旨變

讜旨讘职拽指纸专职讱指证 讜职爪止纸讗谞职讱指謾 讬执专职讘职旨讬只謹谉 讜职讻侄芝住侄祝 讜职讝指讛指謻讘 讬执专职讘侄旨讛志诇指旨謶讱职 讜职讻止芝诇 讗植砖侄讈专志诇职讱指謻 讬执专职讘侄旨纸讛變

讜职专指謻诐 诇职讘指讘侄謶讱指 讜职砖指纸讈讻址讞职转指旨謾 讗侄转 讛 讗直诇止-讬讱指

When you have eaten your fill, and have built fine houses to live in,

and your herds and flocks have multiplied, and your silver and gold have increased, and everything you own has prospered,

beware lest your heart grow haughty and you forget the ETERNAL your God

The concern for this haughty attitude is further articulated in verse 17:

讜职讗指诪址专职转指旨謻 讘执旨诇职讘指讘侄謶讱指 讻止旨讞执讬謾 讜职注止郑爪侄诐 讬指讚执謹讬 注指芝砖指讉讛 诇执謻讬 讗侄转志讛址讞址芝讬执诇 讛址讝侄旨纸讛

and you say to yourselves, 鈥淢y own power and the might of my own hand have won this wealth for me.鈥�

In other words, people who are full and satisfied are actually unlikely to feel gratitude. They might give themselves credit for the blessings that they enjoy. As Jeffrey Tigay puts it in The JPS Torah Commentary on Deuteronomy, 鈥淭he idea that material wealth and satiety can lead to pride and arrogance and forgetting one鈥檚 dependence on God is a persistent concern in the Bible鈥� ( p. 80).

Another text from Tractate Berakhot 32a backs up Professor Tigay鈥檚 assertion and brings a list of biblical quotes, including one from Parashat Eikev (Deut. 8:14), to support the idea that being satiated can lead to trouble.

讗指诪址专 专址讘 讗址讞指讗 讘职旨专值讬讛旨 讚职旨专址讘 讛讜旨谞指讗 讗指诪址专 专址讘 砖值讈砖侄讈转: 讛址讬职讬谞讜旨 讚职旨讗指诪职专执讬 讗执讬谞指砖值讈讬: 诪职诇值讬 讻职旨专值住值讬讛旨 讝职谞值讬 讘执旨讬砖值讈讬. 砖侄讈谞侄旨讗直诪址专: 状讻职旨诪址专职注执讬转指诐 讜址讬执旨砖职讉讘指旨注讜旨 砖指讉讘职注讜旨 讜址讬指旨专讎诐 诇执讘指旨诐 注址诇 讻值旨谉 砖职讈讻值讞讜旨谞执讬状. 专址讘 谞址讞职诪指谉 讗指诪址专: 诪值讛指讻指讗: 状讜职专指诐 诇职讘指讘侄讱指 讜职砖指讈讻址讞职转指旨 讗侄转 讛壮状. 讜职专址讘指旨谞址谉 讗指诪职专执讬, 诪值讛指讻指讗: 状讜职讗指讻址诇 讜职砖指讉讘址注 讜职讚指砖值讈谉 讜旨驻指谞指讛状.

On a similar note, Rav A岣, son of Rav Huna, said that Rav Sheshet said: That is what people say in a popular maxim: Filling his stomach is a type of sin, as it is stated: 鈥淲hen they were fed and became full they were sated, and their hearts were lifted and they have forgotten Me鈥� (Hosea 13:6). Rav Na岣an said: This principle is derived not from the verse in Hosea, but from here: 鈥淎nd your heart is lifted and you forget the Lord鈥� (Deut.8:14). And the Rabbis say that this principle is derived from here: 鈥淎nd they will have eaten and been sated and fattened, and they will turn to other gods鈥� (Deut. 31:20).

While some people innately feel gratitude, many of us need to be commanded to be thankful, especially at times when we feel satisfied, such as after eating. The commandment to regularly recite birkat hamazon is a way to counter these self-aggrandizing impulses, a gratitude practice that inculcates awareness of blessings that we cannot control. That practice has the potential to help us avoid the pride and arrogance Moses describes. Moreover, psychological research shows that feeling and expressing gratitude makes for happier and more optimistic people. Being thankful is good for us.

The practice of gratitude is an important life lesson that all my students need, so birkat hamazon remains a part of Schechter鈥檚 daily routines. When a reluctant 12-year-old tells me that they don鈥檛 want to do it, that is an opportunity to begin a dialogue with them, to share the things I am grateful for in my life, and to ask them to reflect on what they are grateful for. Reciting birkat hamazon at each meal offers my students and me the ongoing and frequent opportunity for this important reflection. So, whether it is with the enthusiastic elementary students or the leery upper school students, I will be excited to sing birkat hamazon with them again when they come back to school this fall.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

This is exactly where B鈥檔ei Yisrael finds themselves at the opening of Mattot-Masei. With forty years of wandering behind them and the land of Canaan visible across the Jordan, they stand at a great threshold. And it is at precisely this moment that the Torah pauses, looks backward, and does something unexpected:

讜址讬执旨讻职转止旨吱讘 诪止砖侄讈譁讛 讗侄转志诪讜止爪指讗值讬讛侄譀诐 诇职诪址住职注值讬讛侄謻诐 注址诇志驻执旨郑讬 讛’ 讜职讗值芝诇侄旨讛 诪址住职注值讬讛侄謻诐 诇职诪讜止爪指讗值讬讛侄纸诐

鈥淢oses recorded the starting points of their various marches as directed by GOD. Their marches, by starting points, were as follows.鈥� (Num. 33:2)

What follows is a dense list of forty-two encampments, most appearing nowhere else in the Torah and attached to no narrative whatsoever. 鈥淭here is nothing in the Torah that seems to be as superfluous as the recording of these marches,鈥� writes the 15th-century Spanish commentator Rabbi Abraham Saba, capturing a discomfort that ripples through generations of interpreters.

To make sense of this itinerary, classical commentaries like Rashi, Maimonides, and Sforno search for a macro-theological purpose, reading it as proof of divine providence, kindness, or historical loyalty. Yet these interpretations all share a collective vantage point. What none of them quite asks is what this exercise actually meant for the individual doing the writing.

The text emphasizes that Moses wrote it down, al pi Hashem, at God’s explicit instruction. This is an intimate act: Moses, sitting with the full weight of forty years, commanded to go back through every stop and departure, not to extract an overarching lesson, but simply to name them, one by one, from the very beginning.

This is a masterful pedagogical move on God’s part. John Dewey famously argued that 鈥渨e do not learn from experience鈥e learn from reflecting on experience.鈥� True reflection requires a willingness to sit with what happened before moving on to what comes next.

And Moses, in doing this, does not produce a highlight reel. Read the text closely and notice what actually interrupts the otherwise steady rhythm of vayisu and vayahanu (they set out and they encamped). The pattern only breaks for moments of vulnerability: the Egyptians burying their firstborn; Rephidim, where they ran out of water and failed in faith; the painful specificity of Aaron鈥檚 death; and the looming threat of the Canaanite king of Arad.

These are not glorious inclusions. Strikingly, Sinai gets the same flat line as a dozen forgotten stops. The list only slows down for grief, fear, doubt, and loss. Everything else, including revelation itself, gets folded into the steady rhythm of the march.

The natural human instinct, standing at a moment of arrival, is to curate and tell a clean story that moves seamlessly from struggle to triumph, quietly omitting the embarrassing or mundane stops. We do this instinctively at graduations and end-of-year celebrations, selecting for key moments and presenting a version of the journey edited for the occasion.

But Moses is commanded to preserve the whole journey. Furthermore, he does not get the chance to use his reflection to fuel future performance. Unlike in Dewey’s model, where we look back in order to do better next time, there is no next chapter for Moses. He knows he will not cross the Jordan. Yet God commands the writing anyway, teaching us that honest reflection has value independent of utility. Bearing witness to the fullness of a journey is an act of integrity and a way of saying, before moving on: all of this was real. I was here for all of it.

This is what I find myself wanting to offer my own children at the end of this complicated, layered year, and what we are called to offer the students and children in our care more broadly. Not a curated version of who they were, but the honest acknowledgment that we saw them through the whole of it: the hard stops, the boring ones, the painful ones, and the glorious ones together, without ranking them or editing them into a tidier story than the one that actually happened. To do that is to tell them something a graduation speech rarely does: that they are seen and loved not only at their best, but across the full, complicated, bumpy length of the road.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

The Masorah noticed this numerical character as well. Medieval scribes carefully recorded that the parashah contains 168 verses, 1,887 words, and 7,853 letters. Such figures served a practical purpose鈥攖hey helped scribes verify copies of the text. But the Masoretes were hardly alone. Rabbinic literature is full of lists and enumerations. Four New Years. Ten generations from Adam to Noah. Thirty-nine categories of labor prohibited on Shabbat.

The second half of Parashat Pinehas provides an especially clear example. Numbers 28鈥�29 presents the sacrificial calendar in careful sequence. The reader moves from the daily offering to the Sabbath offering, from the Sabbath to the new moon, and from there through the cycle of festivals. Days are counted. Months are counted. Sacrifices are counted. The section reads less like a story than like a schedule.

This calendrical material becomes even more interesting when one remembers that the parashah itself occupies different positions within the calendar. In the Diaspora there are four basic ways in which Pinehas can relate to the Seventeenth of Tammuz. Because of the structure of the Hebrew calendar, Pinehas is sometimes read just before the fast, sometimes just after it, and occasionally within the same week

These variations also affect the way the portion is heard. A congregation reading Pinehas on the nineteenth of Tammuz is already within the period of mourning. A congregation reading it on the fourteenth stands just before it. The text is unchanged, but the setting is not.

That observation leads naturally to the name of the season itself.

In Hebrew, the period between the Seventeenth of Tammuz and the Ninth of Av is known as 讘讬谉 讛诪爪专讬诐, “between the straits.” The phrase comes from the Book of Lamentations: “All her pursuers overtook her between the straits.” In its biblical context the image is geographical. Jerusalem has been trapped in a narrow place with no avenue of escape.

Yiddish-speaking Jews often used a different expression. Rather than 讘讬谉 讛诪爪专讬诐, they commonly spoke of 讚讬 讚专讬讬 讜讜讗指讻谉, “the Three Weeks.” The difference is small, but not meaningless.

The two names describe the same period in different ways. The Hebrew term preserves a biblical image of confinement and distress. The Yiddish term simply counts the time. One speaks in metaphor. The other speaks in weeks.

That contrast brings us back to the Mishnah.

Tractate Ta’anit provides the classic framework for this season. It begins with a numerical scheme that would have felt entirely natural to a rabbinic audience: “Five things happened to our ancestors on the Seventeenth of Tammuz, and five on the Ninth of Av.”

The events themselves range across many centuries. Some belong to the biblical period. Others belong to the Roman era. Historians may question whether they occurred on the precise dates assigned to them. The Mishnah’s purpose, however, is not chronology. It is organization. A scattered collection of national disasters is arranged into two groups of five.

The chapter then turns to mourning practices associated with the Ninth of Av. At that point the reader might reasonably expect the tractate to conclude with destruction, exile, and grief.

Instead, it takes a sharp turn.

The very next mishnah opens with the declaration: “There were no festivals for Israel like the Fifteenth of Av [1]and Yom Kippur.”

The shift is striking. One moment the Mishnah is discussing catastrophe. A few lines later, young women dressed in borrowed white garments are dancing in the vineyards. The movement is so abrupt that it has puzzled readers for centuries.

Scholars including Paul Mandel have suggested that the reference to Yom Kippur may be a later editorial addition. While not everyone accepted Mandel’s proposal, the larger question remains: Why conclude a discussion of national catastrophe with courtship and dancing?

That tension brings us back once more to Parashat Pine岣s. The portion is remembered for its laws of sacrifice and festivals. The Three Weeks commemorate the destruction of the Temple where those sacrifices were offered. The Mishnah counts the disasters associated with that destruction and then ends, unexpectedly, with a festival.

Throughout these sources, counting remains a constant. The objects counted change鈥攍etters, sacrifices, days, weeks, or disasters鈥攂ut the habit itself throughout.

Seen in this light, Pinehas occupies a distinctive place in the annual cycle. It stands near the point where several systems of counting converge: the Masorah’s count of letters and verses, the Torah’s count of sacrifices and festivals, the calendar’s count of days, and the Mishnah’s count of historical disasters.

There is a lesson in that fact, though not an especially complicated one. Human beings count what they do not wish to lose. Communities do the same thing. They count their dead, their festivals, their years, and their sacred texts. Counting is one way of marking something as worthy of attention.

The rabbis who shaped the observance of the Three Weeks could not rebuild the Temple. The Masoretes who counted the letters of the Torah could not restore the world in which much of that tradition had first developed. What they could do was refuse to let things disappear without a trace.

This observation may help explain the ending of Tractate Ta’anit. After all the disasters, mourning practices, and discussion of destruction, the Mishnah turns to young women dancing in the vineyards. The editors knew perfectly well that the Temple had been destroyed. Yet they chose not to give destruction the final word.

The weeks between the Seventeenth of Tammuz and the Ninth of Av ask us to remember losses that span centuries. Yet remembrance is only part of the task. We also must notice what remains: the communities we sustain, the traditions we inherit, the texts we study, and the responsibilities we carry forward.

May we learn to count wisely, giving our attention to what is worthy of it. May we remember the past without becoming trapped within it. And may the days that now lead us toward mourning also lead us, in time, toward consolation, renewal, and peace.

May it be Your will that we be comforted from Heaven for all the disasters that have befallen us, and may we merit to hear once again voices of joy and gladness in Judah and the outskirts of Jerusalem, speedily in our days. Amen.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

[1] Tu B’Av (the Fifteenth of Av) is a minor 黑料社 holiday following the mourning period of the Three Weeks, which is associated with courtship, reconciliation, and communal joy.

Balaam鈥檚 story is an unusually good place to watch that interpretive dynamic unfold, because his own character becomes a shared (and contested) reference point in both 黑料社 and Christian reading to think about dangerous speech and false prophecy. The New Testament already references Balaam as a polemical tool (Rev. 2:14, Jude 11, II Pet. 2:15), while rabbinic traditions often interpret him as a paradigmatic wicked gentile prophet. But despite these categories established early in both textual communities, Balaam resists easy binaries. He is neither an Israelite nor entirely outside God鈥檚 purposes; he is simultaneously an outsider, participant, critic, and unwilling witness. So perhaps the more interesting question to ask is not whether Balaam is good or evil, prophet or fraud, insider or outsider, but this: What does it take to see what has been there all along?

One small detail in the Torah鈥檚 description of Balaam at the beginning of his speech, a phrase about his eye, became a hinge for generations of interpreters thinking about what it means to “see”:

Num. 24:3

讜讬砖讗 诪砖诇讜 讜讬讗诪专 谞讗诐 讘诇注诐 讘谞讜 讘注专 讜谞讗诐 讛讙讘专 砖转诐 讛注讬谉

He took up his discourse and said: The declaration of Balaam son of Beor, and the declaration of the man shetum ha-ayin [meaning unclear].

Explaining the unusual Hebrew phrase shetum ha-ayin, appearing only in this chapter, Rashi draws on BT Sanhedrin 105a鈥檚 aggadic interpretation that the Torah鈥檚 use of the singular 鈥渁yin鈥� (eye) indicates that Balaam was blind in one eye. Whatever the philological merits, the exegetical point is vivid: the man who claims visionary authority is marked by partial sight. He sees, but only out of one eye; he knows, but not fully.

Balaam鈥檚 failure, therefore, might be interpreted as not merely wickedness, but self-certainty. He assumes that because he is a seer, he sees; however, it is the donkey鈥檚 attentiveness that actually perceives the angel in the road. The beauty of biblical commentary is that no one reader sees everything fully. 黑料社 readers, Christian readers, medieval readers, modern scholars 鈥� all are, in some sense, seeing some things clearly and missing others. In the study of texts, traditions, and their long histories of encounter, the donkey鈥檚 careful attentiveness is the rarer gift. But what makes sight possible at all?

Thinking beyond Balaam鈥檚 physical condition and character, this narrative might be read about our human perception itself.

Num. 22:31

讜址讬职讙址诇 讛鈥� 讗侄转志注值讬谞值讬 讘执诇职注指诐

And the Lord uncovered Balaam鈥檚 eyes.

Rabbi Tobiah ben Eliezer, an eleventh-century contemporary of Rashi鈥檚 from the Byzantine Empire, writes in his Lekah Tov:

讜讬讙诇 讛壮 讗转 注讬谞讬 讘诇注诐 鈥� 诪诇诪讚 砖讻诇 讛注讜诇诐 讻讜诇讜 讘讞讝拽转 住讜诪讬谉 注讚 砖讛拽讚讜砖 讘专讜讱 讛讜讗 诪讙诇讛 注讬谞讬讛诐 讻讬讜爪讗 讘讜 讜讬驻拽讞 讗诇讛讬诐 讗转 注讬谞讬讛 讜转专讗 讘讗专 诪讬诐. 讬砖 讛专讘讛 讚讘专讬诐 讜讗讬谉 讻讞 讘注讬谞讬 讛讗讚诐 诇专讗讜转诐 注讚 砖讬讙讝讜专 讛拽讘状讛

And the Lord uncovered Balaam鈥檚 eyes 鈥� this teaches that the whole entire world is presumed blind until the Holy One, blessed be He, uncovers their eyes. Similarly [of Hagar]: 鈥淎nd God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water鈥� [Gen. 21:19]. There are many things, and the human eye has no power to see them until the Holy One, blessed be He, decrees it.

Ben Eliezer鈥檚 movement from Balaam to Hagar is especially striking: in both cases, God opens non-Israelite eyes to something already there. The well and the angel may be miraculous, but the deeper wonder is that both were present before humans could see them. Moreover, Lekah Tov does not make this a story only about Balaam鈥檚 flaws. The limit is simply human: 鈥渢he whole entire world is presumed blind鈥� until God uncovers our eyes. Read this way, the parsha is not mainly warning about wicked outsiders, but is asking insiders to admit how much of reality (textual, moral, spiritual) we regularly pass by without noticing.

There is something subversive, and I think genuinely hopeful, about a tradition that builds a central lesson about vision and divine wisdom around a non-Israelite prophet and a talking donkey. For an educated modern public living amid confident claims from every side, Parashat Balak offers a counter-discipline to our New Yorker 鈥渟ee something, say something鈥� instincts, encouraging us to move through the text with less certainty about what we already 鈥渟ee,鈥� and more willingness to have our eyes uncovered before we speak. For if even Balaam can be made to speak truth, and even a donkey can notice what the prophet misses, then our task together is to become the kind of readers – and neighbors – whose attention makes room for truths we did not expect to hear, maybe even occasionally from people we did not expect to trust.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

Neither of these approaches is entirely satisfying. I tend to be sympathetic to the perspective that Korah鈥檚 challenge doesn鈥檛 merit being swallowed alive. His desire for a fully egalitarian society is, if perhaps impractical, certainly understandable. And the response to his group seems to prove his point: surely a just society ought to be open to hearing challenges and taking them seriously, rather than smiting those who are troubled by the existing power structure. Yet how can we fully take Korah鈥檚 side if his devastating punishment comes from God?

I want to suggest that instead of siding with Korah and defending the actions of his group, or siding with God and coming up with a rationale for Korah鈥檚 harsh punishment, a more satisfying response to this story鈥檚 challenge might come from the rabbis, who are themselves conflicted inheritors of the tradition.

The rabbis rewrite Korah鈥檚 story in a number of different ways, some more sympathetic than others. In one version presented in Bemidbar Rabbah, Korah鈥檚 challenge is not about the general leadership structure but rather relates to the particulars of certain mitzvot. Korah asks Moses whether a garment entirely made out of tekhelet (the sky blue dye commanded for biblical tzitzit) would be exempt from tzitzit, and when told that it would not be, objects, 鈥淎 tallit that is entirely made of tekhelet doesn鈥檛 exempt itself, but four threads [of tzitzit] exempt it?!鈥� He then asks whether a house full of Torah scrolls would be exempt from needing a mezuzah on its doorposts, and when again told that it would not be, objects, 鈥淭he two hundred and seventy-five chapters of the Torah don鈥檛 exempt the house, but the one chapter that is in the mezuzah exempts it?!鈥� He then proceeds to accuse Moses of making the whole thing up.

Korah鈥檚 questions in this version of the story pose a serious challenge to the seeming arbitrariness of the halakhic system, and for this reason they remind me of the way the rabbis present another famous questioner who happens to be one of their own: a sage named Rabbi Yirmiyah. Like the rabbinic version of Korah, Rabbi Yirmiyah likes to ask questions about why halakha is the way it is, and similarly like Korah, asks about hypothetical cases to demonstrate the arbitrariness of the law. Most famously, he asks about the legal ruling for a lost chick who is found with one foot within fifty cubits of its coop, in which case it would need to be returned to its owner, and one foot outside fifty cubits, in which case it would belong to its finder鈥攁nd he asks several other such questions throughout the Talmud. Of course, the rabbis also like to use hypothetical cases to test halakhic principles, so Rabbi Yirmiyah鈥檚 questions are not so far outside the pale. Nonetheless, he becomes a kind of scapegoat within the tradition for the rabbis鈥� ambivalence toward their own intellectual project. As punishment, he is not swallowed up into the earth, but he is famously kicked out of the rabbinic study hall (BT Bava Batra 23b), which for a rabbi in late antiquity is basically just as awful.

A lesser-known fact about Rabbi Yirmiyah, however, is that after being kicked out of the study hall, he later returns to the intellectual community (BT Bava Batra 165b). His colleagues realize that they still need his wisdom, and they send him some questions, which he answers with a combination of sagacity and deep humility. Upon realizing that he is not the threat they at first perceived him to be, his colleagues welcome him back, and though the text does not say so explicitly, I imagine that he is thrilled and relieved to return.

Parshat Korah presents the story of a question perceived as a communal threat that is met with complete suppression, one that we may never fully make sense of. But the rabbinic tradition offers us two helpful resources: first, a tradition in which Korah is seen as someone whose questions may be deeply challenging but nonetheless stem from real intellectual engagement; and second, through the R. Yirmiyah narratives, an alternative tale of what a community can do, at least at a minimum, to take questioners seriously, even if they at first raised some hackles. Each of us knows what it is like to hear a challenge to our commitments that makes us deeply uncomfortable. I hope we can learn from the stories the rabbinic tradition offers us about considering new models for what curiosity, and even repair, can look like.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

The popular bulletin Shabbaton welcomed the change, arguing that the iconic illustration distorts the verse 鈥溩曌欁┳愖斪� 讘诪讜讟 讘砖谞讬诐鈥�, as most commentators understood it. Indeed, following Sotah 34b, Rashi believed the cluster was carried by no less than eight people. Furthermore, the grapes symbolise a sin, which the iconic image blurs.

The spies鈥� illustration epitomizes the power of images but also their hermeneutic limitations. Of the complex story that Parashat Shelah Lekha relates concisely, the grapes are a central motif in the visual tradition that illustrates it. For a biblical story to become an image, the artist must focus not only on the sayable but also the seeable. Hence, throughout history, images have often been presented alongside words. For example, the depicts the two spies, along with the inscription 讘诪讜讟 讘砖谞讬讬诐鈥�.[1]“

During the Renaissance, words were increasingly excluded from pictures; thus, the bible鈥檚 illustrators had to find other ways to signify their themes. Since Biblical paintings have no definite visual tradition to draw on, artists often chose a prop to make their pictures identifiable. When Giovanni Lanfranco painted Moses and the Messengers from Canaan (1621-1624), he depicted the former with his staff and horns, not to recall a miracle or divine radiation, but to indicate who is shown. It is perhaps for these practical reasons that the grapes became the visual emblem of the spies’ narrative.

Maerten de Vos鈥� illustration is set in a pastoral, hilly landscape (c. 1584). In addition to the two spies who crossed the Eshcol stream on a makeshift wooden bridge, he portrayed several figures that indicate, as the spies reported, that Canaan was populated. In the background, one can see one of the fortified cities that terrorized the Israelites. But the only feature in the picture that links it indelibly to the spies鈥� story is the grapes the duo carries.

Even in the 19^th century, when depictions of the story became more 鈥渞ealistic,鈥� the grapes retained a

primary role. In Gustav Dor茅鈥檚 1866 print, the scene appears in a desert landscape with 鈥淥riental鈥� costuming. However, here, even more than before, the grapes dominate the composition. Displayed on a small hill before the Israelites, they affirm the spies鈥� report. The illustration, however, departs from Numbers 13:27, where the fruits testify that Canaan flows with milk and honey. The rebellion occurs when the spies claim that the Canaanites are invincible. Thus, one may wonder whether Dor茅鈥檚 print brings to the fore an important trope or a relatively marginal theme.  

The Talmud, as discussed above, enlarges the grapes to unnatural proportions, making their symbolism ambiguous. The cluster may speak to Canaan鈥檚 abundance but also the otherness of a newly encountered land. In his commentary on Sotah, Rashi resolves this ambiguity: 鈥渋ts people are as strange as its fruits, tall and strong.鈥� The images I discuss here, by contrast, preserve the grapes鈥� open-endedness. 

In Lanfranco鈥榮 painting, the spies appear less rebellious than perplexed. Painted from a low angle, the scene emphasises hierarchy: Moses raises his hand while a spy bows before him. Holding a dark fig, the spy points towards the enormous cluster. His questioning look suggests bewilderment in the presence of the eccentric bunch of lush green grapes and dark, murky fruits. 

The grapes can thus be seen as a pharmakon, i.e., a signifier whose hermeneutic indeterminacy can only be settled by interpretive violence. While reading Plato鈥檚 Phaedrus, Jacques Derrida argues that the translation of pharmakon as poison or remedy 鈥渙bliterates the virtual, dynamic references to the other uses of the same word in Greek.鈥� Similarly, in 黑料社 classical texts, the grapes have several meanings. Psalms praise the wine that makes the human heart happy, but Proverbs warns that it bites like a snake. In Numbers 13, too, the grapes represent duality: fertility, but also, since such a large cluster does not grow in the wild, it speaks of the presence of other people.

As a pharmakon, the grapes do not destabilize the text鈥檚 meaning, nor merely bring forward hermeneutic pluralism, but embody its peculiar demand of faith. If the mission to Canaan was supposed to dispel uncertainty (Deuteronomy 1:22), the grapes retrieve the undecidability of standing before the divine. They call for a free decision, which  must 鈥済o through the ordeal of the undecidable.鈥� In this vein, Derrida cites Kierkegaard, for whom 鈥渢he instant of decision is madness.” The encounter with the incalculable warrants the intoxication of trust in God.

By the time the grapes were adopted in Palestine, they no longer harboured ambiguity. Instead, they symbolized agricultural fertility and, paradoxically, rootedness. The image was first used by Teperberg Winery, later Karmel Mizrachi, and finally the Israeli Ministry of Tourism.[3] This led to several copyright court cases, manifesting not only commercial but also political tensions. While the Teperberg Winery was part of the Old Yishuv, Karmel Mizrachi was an initiative of the First Aliya.

In this vein, one may read the decorative ceramic panel by Zeev Raban,[4] which shows the spies in Arab clothing, carrying an 鈥淥riental鈥� sword and a big rifle.[5] The figures recall the Second Aliya members of HaShomer who guarded the 黑料社 settlements. The artwork denotes the rootedness of those who defend the land. When the grapes became the Ministry of Tourism鈥檚 logo, they were an established national symbol.

The story鈥檚 lost ambiguity was recently revived by the Israeli musician Shlomi Shaban, portrays Moses and the spies as a squad of soldiers walking aimlessly in the desert. Although the grapes play a marginal role in this dramatization, they reverse the function of religious symbols in contemporary Israel. Joshua, who is referred to in the song as 鈥測ud,鈥�[6] says, 鈥淢y soul is thirsty not for revelations but wine.鈥� Similarly, the song ends with insights that resonate with Rabbi Nachman of Breslov,[7] and postpones the return to Zion into an eternal future: 鈥淏ut there is no Canaan, Canaan is in the heart/ if we enter or not, it is the same鈥� I am only a wandering Jew/ I was born to depart/ from ancient time and until the next year in Jerusalem.鈥� 

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).

[1] The mosaic, which was probably created in the 5^th EC, was discovered by archaeologist Jodi Magness and her team from the University of North California.

[3] Zeev Teperberg used the spies鈥� logo already in 1852 when he opened an agency for wine and drinks in the old city of Jerusalem, and later, of the winery his son Abraham Teperberg established in 1870. The winery is now known as Efrat Winery.

[4] The panel is now located in the old Beit Hava鈥檃d of Beit Hakerem in Jerusalem.

[5] Raban follows a common practice of depicting the spies with swords (e.g., Maerten de Vos鈥� illustration and Poussin鈥檚 Autumn), but the edition of the rifle is unique.

[6] Throughout the song, Moses, Joshua and Caleb are suggestively called 鈥渕em,鈥� 鈥測ud,鈥� and 鈥渒af鈥� as intelligence personnel and special forces.

[7] Rabbi Nachman famously said, 鈥淓verywhere I go, I go to the Land of Israel.鈥�

In Numbers 11, the Israelites protest their steady diet of manna and forcefully demand meat (11:4鈥�6). God鈥檚 response unfolds in two seemingly unrelated steps. First, the appointment of a council of seventy elders (11:16鈥�17), often understood as the precursor of the rabbinic Great Sanhedrin; and only afterward, the sending of a powerful wind to bring the quail that will feed the people (11:31). This sequence is surprising: how exactly does a new tribunal offer an adequate response to what appears to be a legitimate desire to diversify the menu?

The beginnings of an answer emerge from a careful reading of the verses. Actually, the text seems to point to a more complex motive on the part of the Israelites: rather than simply craving meat, they seem intent on rejecting manna itself.

鈥淲e remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost鈥攁lso the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic. But now we have lost our appetite; we never see anything but this manna!鈥� (Num. 11:4-6)

What, then, is the problem with manna? Moses鈥檚 anguished response (Num. 11:11鈥�15) provides a hint. It suggests that the Israelites鈥� complaint is not directed at the manna as food, but at what it signifies: the rejection of manna emerges as a rejection of Moses himself.

鈥�(鈥�) Moses was troubled. He asked the Lord, 鈥淲hy have you brought this trouble on your servant? (鈥�)I cannot carry all these people by myself; the burden is too heavy for me.鈥� (Num. 11:10-15)

Rabbinic tradition, characteristically attentive to the silences and nuances of the biblical text, makes the connection between Moses and manna even more explicit: the manna descended daily through Moses鈥檚 merit (BT, Ta鈥檃nit 9a), and with his death on the seventh of Adar, it ceased at once (BT, Kiddushin 38a).

From this perspective, the Israelites鈥� request for meat (and rejection of manna) catalyzes a reconfiguration of authority, shifting leadership away from Moses alone toward a broader structure embodied in the Sanhedrin.

Yet another element invites closer attention. The same biblical text simultaneously casts Moses in strikingly paradoxical terms, portraying him as a nurturing figure: a kind of wet nurse, even a symbolic mother.

Did I conceive all these people? Did I give them birth? Why do you tell me to carry them in my arms, as a nurse carries an infant, to the land you promised on oath to their ancestors? (Num. 11:12)

In this portrayal, Moses becomes a provider of 鈥渕ilk鈥�, the very antithesis of 鈥渕eat.鈥� The biblical text further develops this motif by introducing two additional figures whose very names evoke the imagery of 鈥渕ilk鈥�: Eldad and Medad (Num. 11:26). Counted among the seventy elders of the Sanhedrin, they nevertheless remain in the camp rather than assembling with the others, as if resisting full incorporation into the emerging structure of leadership.

In Hebrew, dad refers to the nipple, viz. the source through which a nursing infant receives milk. Thus, Eldad can be read as 鈥渢oward the breast,鈥� and Medad as 鈥渇rom the breast.鈥� The symbolism is suggestive: it reinforces the depiction of Moses as the nurturing source sustaining Israel in its earliest stage of development. Even as the Israelites begin to move beyond a 鈥淭orah of milk,鈥� Eldad and Medad, two otherwise minor figures, quietly echo the formative stage now being left behind.

Moses, then, is associated with manna and milk, which share important structural similarities. Both are forms of nourishment meant for those who have not yet reached maturity; both cater to the needs of those still in the process of becoming. An infant cannot yet digest solid food; its system is not ready. For a time, it must rely on a provisional, sustaining substitute. So too with the manna, the divine food provided in the desert during the infancy of the 黑料社 people.

Here again, the rabbis amplified some of these themes in the midrash: 鈥�Just as a baby tastes different flavors from the breast, so too with the manna, every time that the 黑料社 people ate, they found in it many flavors鈥� (BT, Yoma 75a). At the same time, if some flavors were absent from the manna (cucumbers, melons, leeks, 鈥�), it is because these foods were deemed harmful to nursing mothers (Sifrei Bemidbar 87).

This implies that the relationship between Moses, the man of milk and manna, and the Hebrew people was one of radical asymmetry: the recipients, still immature, required what we might call a 鈥淭orah of milk,鈥� a Torah of pure revelation. Just like manna, everything flowed from God; human beings were only receivers. At the earliest stage of their formation, the 黑料社 people needed a form of divine communication given directly, without the mediation of human effort or interpretation.

The demand for meat and the rejection of manna constitute, in effect, a declaration of independence. It is the people鈥檚 way of asserting that they will no longer remain in a purely passive relationship with the divine. They refuse to stand only as recipients of revelation and instead seek a different posture, in which they become active partners, shaping and engaging their relationship with the Transcendent rather than simply receiving it.

It is precisely in response to this deeper demand that God initiates a decisive shift: the gradual move away from Moses as the singular, all-encompassing leader toward a more layered and participatory form of leadership: the Sanhedrin. The demand for meat was, in fact, a bold claim to autonomy, a rejection of unceasing Revelation as a form of dependence, and a declaration of the people鈥檚 desire to encounter and engage the Torah on their own terms.

As Immanuel Kant famously observed, 鈥渆nlightenment is man鈥檚 emergence from his self-imposed immaturity.鈥� In Beha-alotekha, we encounter an analogous moment of transformation: a people in the act of growing up. Here, a nascent nation begins to assume a more defined identity, and with that maturation come far-reaching consequences, reshaping not only its inner spiritual posture but also its institutional life and structures of authority.

A 黑料社 Independence Day, as it were.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z鈥漧) and Harold Hassenfeld (z鈥漧).