Comfort -- and refusal to be comforted

The following is a piece written by Rabbi Wein some years ago for the Destiny Foundation on the significance of the month ahead being designated Menachem Av.

Though the month of Av carries with a title – menachem – meaning comfort and consolation, it nevertheless remains the saddest and most disturbing month of the Jewish calendar. Comfort is a great and necessary word but, as a true concept in the real world, it is very difficult to obtain. This is particularly true for individuals reeling from the loss of a beloved one, but it is also generally true for our national entity—the  Jewish people as well. 

There has as yet been neither comfort nor closure regarding the terrible national tragedy of the Holocaust, even though some eight decades have passed since the event. This should come as no surprise to Jews. This is because,  to a great extent, the Jewish people have yet to be comforted for the destruction of our Temple and our exile—events which are almost two millennia old. 

No person or institution in Jewish life is indispensable. But neither are they replaceable. It is the void that is left because of this irreplaceability that prevents us from experiencing  true comfort. This is why the Jewish people have remained restless and often disoriented over the long exile that we have endured. 

The sadness of the first ten days of Av permeates and resonates within us precisely because the sense of closure and comfort has eluded us. The Talmud states that there is a heavenly decree that engenders forgetfulness of the departed by those still living. However, if the object of grief and despair and loss is not truly dead but is only absent, as was the case regarding Jacob’s grief over the loss of Joseph, this sense of closure and comfort remains absent too. That is why the Torah records Jacob’s refusal to accept comfort and solace from his family and friends. Since Joseph was not dead, the heavenly decree of forgetfulness which allows comfort was inoperative. 

I believe that in a strangely ironic way the fact that the Jewish people still suffer from the anguish of the Holocaust is because of the intense efforts made by the Jewish community to prevent forgetfulness of the Holocaust from settling in. It is the Holocaust-deniers that wish to lull us into a false sense of comfort, to proclaim that it is over and that therefore bygones should remain bygones. 

The Bible records that our mother Rachel refuses to be comforted over the exile of her children because she is convinced that they are not permanently lost or exiled and will return. This shows that there is a positive side to not being comforted. It allows for a connection to an unknown future that will not only provide comfort but even replacement of what and who was lost. 

The sadness and tension of the first part of the month of Av are still with us centuries after the event of the destruction of the Temple simply because deep within the heart and psyche of the Jewish people the Temple is not gone, it is only missing. The entire enterprise of the return of the millions of Jewish people to the Land of Israel over the past two centuries and the establishment of the Jewish state in our ancient homeland is testimony to the fact that to the Jews the Land of Israel and the Temple were not dead issues. Those Jewish communities and individuals who “proclaimed that Berlin is our Jerusalem” and therefore sought permanent comfort in being “good” Germans, Russians or Poles, did not fare well in God’s world.

False comfort is far more damaging than no comfort at all. It remained for those Jews who did not forget that they were from Zion and Jerusalem to arise and help the Jewish people survive the worst and bloodiest century in its long history. The prophet warns us against “being comfortable in Zion.” Living in the Land of Israel is not a comfortable experience though it is a holy, challenging and inspiring one. For living in the Land of Israel makes us aware of what we have achieved against all odds and at the same time to appreciate what is still missing. The awareness of what is missing is what prevents us from being “comfortable in Zion.” 

Accordingly the month of Av symbolizes the angst and challenge of living a Jewish life, of being grateful for what we have and yet maintaining a sense of loss for what we are still missing. May this month yet bring us the feeling of menachem—of a better time and the eventual comfort promised to us by God and His prophets.

Pinchas, the Covenant of Peace, and the Broken Vav: A Message for Our Times

In this timely piece for the coming Shabbat, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom reflects on one of the most profound figures in the Torah—Pinchas—and on how his legacy continues to resonate deeply, especially in light of the challenges facing Am Yisrael in our own generation.

The Soul of a Warrior-Saint

Pinchas emerges in Sefer Bamidbar as a zealot who, in a moment of national spiritual collapse, acts decisively. His actions—stopping a public desecration of Hashem's covenant—may seem violent at first glance. Yet the Torah does not describe him as an aggressor or a vigilante. Instead, he is granted a unique divine reward:

"Therefore say: Behold, I give him My covenant of peace (בריתי שלום)."
 — Bamidbar 25:12

This brit shalom—a covenant of peace—contains remarkable depth, and reveals layers of meaning about the nature of true peace, divine protection, and moral integrity in times of conflict. Let us explore three classic interpretations of this phrase through the eyes of Chazal and later commentators.

1. Peace from One’s Enemies – Protection in the Face of Backlash

The first interpretation, brought by the Midrash and many commentators, focuses on the immediate aftermath of Pinchas’s act. He had slain Zimri, a prince of the tribe of Shimon, and Kozbi, a Midianite princess. Their families and supporters could have easily sought vengeance.

The covenant of peace here is understood as divine protection: "Peace"—from retaliation. Hashem promises that no harm will come to Pinchas from those who would otherwise be motivated by revenge.

This is a lesson for us in today's Israel as well. Surrounded by enemies who glorify death while we sanctify life, we too yearn for the peace of protection. Prime Minister Netanyahu recently remarked before Congress that the war against Hamas is not merely a clash of civilizations, but a battle of civilization versus barbarism. In such times, we ask for Hashem’s brit shalom—that our soldiers and our nation be shielded from those who seek to destroy us.

2. Peace from Death – A Gift of Endurance

The second interpretation, found in the commentary of the Sforno, sees the brit shalom as a promise of longevity. Pinchas is later identified with Eliyahu HaNavi, and he lives on for centuries, appearing again in Sefer Shofetim and even at the end of Sefer Malachi.According to the Sforno:

Hashem's covenant of peace was a promise of life itself—a miraculous protection from death.

In reward for halting a spiritual and moral collapse, Pinchas is granted enduring life. His zeal, channeled for the sake of Klal Yisrael and the sanctity of the nation, was met not with condemnation, but with a unique blessing: immortality. This is a model for how deep personal sacrifice in the name of Hashem’s honor can lead to profound spiritual elevation.

3. Peace of the Soul – Guarding Moral Integrity in Battle

The third and perhaps most psychologically profound interpretation is that of the Ha’amek Davar (Netziv of Volozhin). He explains that the brit shalom promised Pinchas inner peace and emotional protection:

When one engages in necessary violence—even in a just war—it can damage the soul. The divine covenant was a safeguard for Pinchas’s inner world.

In other words, Hashem promised him that his neshama would not be coarsened or brutalized by the violent act he had committed.

We see this struggle vividly today. Soldiers returning from battle zones in Gaza often describe the psychological toll of warfare. One soldier recently told Rabbi Kimche that he had spent weeks in “a world of darkness and death.” And yet, the Rabbi met him again at a simcha—davening, playing with his children, and engaging with Torah with clarity and joy. This, I believe, is an expression of the brit shalom granted to those who fight with purity of heart, leshem shamayim.

The Broken Vav: A Flawed Peace

But there is yet another layer, hidden in the Torah scroll itself. If you look closely at the word shalom (שלום) in the pasuk, you’ll notice that the letter vav is broken—split in the middle. This is highly unusual. Any other broken letter in a Sefer Torah invalidates the scroll. Yet here, it is halachically acceptable, even deliberate. Why? Because this teaches us a deep truth: peace that is achieved through violence is inherently incomplete. It may be necessary. It may be justified. But it is not the ultimate vision of shalom.

True shalom—the kind we pray for in Sim Shalom, in Oseh Shalom, and in the Birkat Kohanim—is wholeness. It is harmony without swords, tanks, or pain. The broken vav reminds us that the peace we achieve through war is still fractured. It is not the Messianic peace we long for, but rather a temporary reprieve born of tragic necessity.

Carrying the Legacy Forward

Pinchas became the Mashuach Milchama, the spiritual guide who inspired soldiers before battle. He represents the ideal of purity of intent in times of struggle. His covenant continues to inspire generations of Jewish soldiers and leaders—those who fight not for conquest or cruelty, but for the sanctity of life, the holiness of Eretz Yisrael, and the safety of Am Yisrael.

We stand today as inheritors of this complex but uplifting legacy. May we merit to see the day when the covenant of peace is complete, when the vav is whole, and when the sword can finally be laid to rest.

"וְחָרְבוֹתֵיהֶם יִתְּכְּתוּ לְאִתִּים" — “And they shall beat their swords into plowshares.”
 (Yeshayahu 2:4)

May that day come soon—bimhera beyameinu.

Avoid offence, make a fence!

It’s back to the beginning again as we return to Perek 1 for the third round of pre-Shabbat Pirkei Avot posts.

The first mishnah in the first chapter of Avot begins by establishing how the chain of Torah tradition passed all the way down from the Giving of the Law at Sinai to its being received by the Men of the Great Assembly in the fifth century BCE. This was a tough time. Prophecy was fading away and the Jewish people had come to understand that, from now on, they were to navigate through life with the guidance of only their own understanding of the Torah. This being so, it was apparent that the Torah needed to be protected if it was to protect those to whom it was given. Our mishnah therefore concludes with the third of three instructions from the Men of the Great Assembly:

עֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

Make a fence around the Torah.

What sort of protection does the Torah need? Essentially, there are two main threats to its integrity. One comes from its deliberate or inadvertent misinterpretation; the other, which our mishnah addresses here, is the concern that its adherents will transgress Torah laws though their failure to perform or obey them properly. A classic example relates to observance of the rule that one must not do creative work on Shabbat, the seventh day of the week. This holy day is “fenced in” by adding to it a little bit of both the day before and the day after, to give a little leeway for those good souls who seek to work right to the very last minute and may, in doing so, slip up. This is presumably why, in its Avot page online, Chabad.org actually translates סְיָג (seyag, “fence”) as a “safety fence”.

Here's an additional and perhaps surprising explanation: fence in your words so that they do not become a burden on the people who have to listen to you. This is especially the case when speaking words of Torah: one’s words should be carefully suited to match the subject matter, the occasion and the audience to whom they are addressed. This is not a modern attempt to make the mishnah more meaningful to contemporary readers. It actually comes from the Me’iri (1249-1315) in his Bet HaBechirah. The Me’iri also cites a tale from the Mishlei HaArav concerning a certain wise man who was excessively long-winded. When asked why he spoke at such length he replied: “So that simple folk will understand”, to which he received the retort: “By the time the simple folk understand, the intelligent folk will be bored out of their minds”.

In reality, while a teacher of Torah (or indeed of anything else) can with relatively little effort adapt his words to a single talmid and will hurt no one else even if he repeats himself 400 times (see the story of Rav Perida, Eruvin 54b), the task becomes exponentially harder with each additional addressee. When dealing with a class full of students, each with their specific aptitudes and requirements, it is hard to establish a fence round one’s words that protects those who are quick on the uptake without imposing an insurmountable barrier for those who are less fortunate. One law professor used to share the following advice with each junior colleague as they joined her faculty: 

“The trick is to say everything three times without repeating yourself even once”.

Festive sacrifices and their deeper meaning: Pinchas 5785

The recounting of the mandatory Temple sacrifices for the holidays of the Jewish year occupies significant space in this week’s parsha. While I have many times discussed the overall meaning of animal sacrifices in my parsha pieces, I wish to explore the uniqueness of the sacrifices that are meant to somehow characterize each chag. For example, the sacrifices offered on the seven days of Succot differ for each day of that holiday, unlike the daily sacrifices ordained for the last six days of Pesach, which are identical. This difference has halachic implications regarding the recitation of a Haftorah blessing on the Shabbat of Chol Hamoed. On Succot, since a different sacrifice was offered each day, the blessing is a festive blessing, not just a Shabbat one. On Shabbat Chol Hamoed Pesach the blessing is a purely Shabbat blessing.

A subtle message of general insight is provided here. Pesach, representing a one-time redemption from Egyptian slavery—a great but essentially singular event—repeats the same sacrifice throughout its six last days. But Succot, representing Divine protection over Israel and all individual Jews, is a renewed daily event which captures the differing circumstances that each day brings: a new salvation for each and every day. This is why each day of Succot has a different sacrifice.

The description of the sacrifices for Shavuot is also significant. The Torah describes the holiday as Yom Habikkurim, the day of the offering of the first fruits of the agricultural year. It also states that a new offering—the offering of the two loaves of bread—is to form part of the mincha offering of that day. Now,  each holiday revolves around the natural and agricultural year in the Land of Israel: Pesach is the festival of springtime and the offering of grain symbolizes the harvest of the winter wheat crop; Succot represents the holiday of the fall harvest season. But it is the offerings of Shavuot that are most intertwined with nature and agriculture. 

We know Shavuot as the festival of the granting of the Torah on Sinai to the Jewish people. The Torah does not mention this directly but rather concentrates upon nature, agriculture and the blessings of the bounty of the earth. By not dwelling especially on the granting of the Torah, the Torah subliminally suggests that it is as natural and necessary to us as is the seasons of the year and the bounty of the earth. 

Torah is truly our lives and the length of our days. It is therefore an integral part of nature itself, the very wonders of nature that Shavuot celebrates. Perhaps that is the intention of the rabbis in their statement that the world was created in the image of God’s Torah. 

Shabbat shalom. Rabbi Berel Wein

Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on parshat Pinchas for 5784 ("Outer Peace, Inner Peace") can be accessed here.

Malaise and Medicine

The Three Weeks are a time of sadness and introspection for the Jewish people--but, buried within them, there is a message of happiness and positivity for our future. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

The Rabbis manipulated the weekly order of Torah readings within the yearly calendar so that select parshiyot are aligned (or nearly aligned) with certain festivals and fasts. A few examples: Miketz or Vayigash are usually read on Shabbat Hannukah, Bamidbar before Shavuot, and Devarim before Tisha b’Av.

Parshat Pinchas is one such reading. In most years it is read on the week following the fast of 17 Tamuz. The sages performed this subtle manipulation, juxtaposing the parsha and the fast, or more accurately, a day that is the gateway to the period of the “bein hametzarim” (the Three Weeks), to convey a deeply comforting message.

If you stop and think about it, we read from Pinchas more often than any other parsha in the Torah. Pinchas contains the details of the musaf offerings for all of the holy days – Shabbat, Rosh Chodesh, etc. On every sacred day other than for a regular Shabbat, we take out an extra Torah scroll and read the section corresponding to the offering for that day. Thus, during the very week that as a nation we begin the descent into deep national mourning and sorrow—a generational malaise—we receive a booster shot of joy and hope, a reminder of our best days.

This connection, however, is even more direct. The unique number of holiday days is…20! (Note: we get there as follows: Shabbat – 1, Rosh Chodesh – 1, Pesach mentioned as a 7-day holiday, Shavuot – 1, Rosh Hashanah – 1, Yom Kippur – 1, Succot – mentioned as a 7-day holiday, Shemini Atzeret – 1 – TOTAL – 20). And there are precisely 20 days bridging 17 Tamuz and 9 Av.

This, perhaps, though, is a pollyannish view. Maybe the glass is not half full, but rather half empty. After all, during these three weeks we mourn the fact that we cannot bring these offerings, that we cannot rejoice since we no longer have the Temple. It seems that the sages might be tormenting us rather than consoling and inoculating us.

The key to understanding Chazal may well be a verse in Zechariah (8:19):

כֹּה אָמַר ה צְבָ-אוֹת צוֹם הָרְבִיעִי וְצוֹם הַחֲמִישִׁי וְצוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי וְצוֹם הָעֲשִׂירִי יִהְיֶה לְבֵית יְהוּדָה לְשָׂשׂוֹן וּלְשִׂמְחָה וּלְמֹעֲדִים טוֹבִים וְהָאֱמֶת וְהַשָּׁלוֹם אֱהָבוּ

Thus said GOD of Hosts: The fast of the fourth month, the fast of the fifth month, the fast of the seventh month, and the fast of the tenth month shall become occasions for joy and gladness, happy festivals for the House of Judah; but you must love honesty and integrity.

The Rambam in Hilchot Ta’aniyot (5:9), quoting this pasuk, writes that in the days of Mashiach the four fast days, including 17 Tamuz (the fast of the fourth month) and 9 Av (the fast of the fifth month), will be nullified and will become days of happiness and joy—in other words, holidays. This is likewise prophesized by Yirmiyahu (Jer. 31:12) וְהָפַכְתִּ֨י אֶבְלָ֤ם לְשָׂשׂוֹן֙ “and I will transform their mourning into joy,” and expressed in the Book of Eicha itself (1:15) קָרָ֥א עָלַ֛י מוֹעֵ֖ד “call unto me a holiday.”

In other words, this is not “mere” tradition, it is a matter of Divine promise. Our sages know that these days are destined to be elevated to great heights. This means that they already contain the seeds, the sparks, the potential for this ecstasy. They used parshat Pinchas to place a sign, to point a big finger to these weeks that says to our people while you are despairing reach into your joyful experiences, your Succot, your Pesach, your Simchat Torah and recognize that very soon these solemn days will feel just like those.

עתיד הקב"ה להפוך ט' באב לששון ולשמחה שנאמר כה אמר ה' צבאות לצום הרביעי ולצום החמישי... ולבנות ירושלים הוא עצמו ולקבץ גלויות ישראל לתוכה שנאמר: "בונה ירושלים ה' נדחי ישראל יכנס" (מדרש איכה)

In the future, HKB”H will transform 9 Av to [a day] of joy and happiness…and rebuild Jerusalem Himself and ingather the exiles, as it says, God will build Jerusalem and gather the dispersed.

We are witnessing miracles and great salvation; may He complete this job soon!

The Three Weeks -- why do we need them?

According to Ashkenazic custom, the period beginning with the fast of 17 Tammuz and ending after the fast day of 9 Av is the longest slice of time in the Jewish calendar that is dedicated to remembering any historical event that happened to the Jewish people.  In the world a large, such days and commemorations are usually limited to a single day. But to stretch this period of time over three full weeks is a particularly Jewish phenomenon.

One of the reasons that such a considerable period has been set aside for sad remembrance is that mourning and self-reflection are processes that build themselves up on a cumulative basis. Our emotions and mindset require time if we are to be able to understand and respond to tragedies, both personal and national. If the fast day of 9 Av were to arrive without preparation or introduction, it could very well be deemed only a formality and become an insignificant day on the Jewish calendar. It is the build-up that allows for a true assessment of the events in the history of the day itself.

 These three weeks that lead to 9 Av are necessary in order that this special day be imbued with significance and historical meaning. Almost two millennia have passed since the events of that day of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the holy Temple in the year 70 CE. The fact that that they have been remembered and commemorated over such a long period of time is testimony to the power of the ritual and observance that this three-week period imposes upon Jewish life.

 It is interesting to note that the apparent discomfort that this period imposes upon us is relatively of minor consequence. Even the restrictions regarding eating meat and drinking wine during the days immediately preceding the fast of 9  Av are of relatively little discomfort to us. Fish restaurants look forward all year long to these days. Yet all the restrictions of the three weeks that precede 9 Av do have a spiritual and emotional effect upon us, even if only subliminally. 

 Somehow, over the centuries and through the dark and abysmal nights of Jewish history, this time of remembrance kept our memory of Zion and Jerusalem, of the holy Temple, and of Jewish sovereignty alive and real. Today's State of Israel is a product of this three-week period. There have been many twists and turns in the Jewish story over the past millennia. However, the one constant has been the fact that the Jewish people instinctively realize that, wherever they live in the wider world and no matter how successful and peaceful their sojourn might be, they are not really at home. Home is our ancient land, promised to us by Heaven and which Jews have contended for over all of the ages.

 There are those who say that, since we have been privileged to regain Jewish sovereignty in the land of Israel and that Jerusalem is now a large, modern and inhabited city, there is little reason for us to preserve the observances that these three weeks have imposed upon us. In my opinion this would be a classic example of throwing out the baby with the bathwater. It is only because of this three-week period that we can appreciate the gift that Heaven has bestowed upon our time, in restoring the Jewish people to their homeland and to national sovereignty.

 Without perspective, nothing in life can truly be appreciated. Generations now born, 77 years after the founding of the state of Israel and 58 years after the liberation of Jerusalem, really have no background against which to judge the wonders that have occurred—and continue to occur. These three weeks allow us to frame the events of our time and our current situation. They give us a sense of gratitude and understanding instead of just relying upon sometimes vapid patriotism and formal staged commemorations. The ninth of Av will yet be a day of joy and feasting, when Jewish history has finally completed its long journey.

"It's not the mouse that is the thief": Balak 5785

Although Bilaam is the major villain of the piece in this week’s parsha, we should not overlook Balak’s nefarious role in events. Balak is the instigator of the plot to curse and destroy the Jewish people. He finances Bilaam and is most persistent in pursuing his evil goal—even after Bilaam apparently despairs of the success of his mission and tells Balak so. Balak nevertheless insists that Bilaam continue, in case he might yet be able to curse the people of Israel.

Often in Jewish history we find this scenario repeated, with those behind the scenes persistently encouraging the masses to destroy the Jews while they stay a pious distance behind, causing, but somehow apparently not participating in, the murderous mayhem. As hate-filled as Bilaam is, he cannot operate alone. He needs financial and social backing for him to do his worst. As Balak’s hired hand, Bilaam is eventually killed by the very people he attempted to destroy. But Balak lives on, to try again to accomplish the destruction of the Jewish nation. Balak never makes peace with the idea that the Lord does not allow him his goal. His tenacity for hatred and his evil behavior are the true hallmark of his identity. 

Centuries later, the prophet reminds us of Balak’s scheme and of his advice to Bilaam; he warns us not to overlook Balak’s role in this story of aggression and unreasoned hatred. By invoking the original Balak, the prophet informs us that we will be better able to identify and deal with his successors in deceit and hatred throughout the ages. 

The suicide bomber (Bilaam) is not the only guilty party in terrorist attacks. It is the Balaks who send them and support them that are certainly equally as guilty. The self-righteous human rights organizations that promote only hatred and violence under the guise of doing good deeds are also responsible for the loss of the precious lives of innocents, killed by those whom such organizations nurture and support. The Talmud stated this reality by coining the famous Jewish aphorism: “It is not the mouse alone that is the thief. It is rather the hole in the wall that lets the mouse in that is the real thief.” It is the persistence of those that are determined to undermine the Jewish people and the State of Israel that places them as direct descendants of the immoral Balak. 

In the Pesach Haggadah we read that in every generation we face this challenge. No matter how many Bilaams we dispose of, Balak somehow survives to continue to try again. The words of the prophet in this week’s haftorah—to remember Balak’s role in the story of the Jewish people in the desert of Sinai—are addressed to us and to our times as well. We should not be shocked, though our sadness over this fact is understandable, that the malevolence against Jews of the 1930s can repeat itself in our time too. For as long as Balak remains a force in the world, the Jewish problem will not go away. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein  

To read Rabbi Wein's devar Torah for this parasha last year, "Who is the real villain?", click here.

Who Are These People With You?

In this piece on this week's parashah, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom takes a deeper look at Hashem’s question to Bilaam and explains how some of our most valued Torah commentators have understood it.

In parashat Balak, the enigmatic prophet Bilaam receives an offer from the emissaries of Balak, king of Moav: to become a royal advisor and curse Israel. Immediately, we see that Bilaam is not an ordinary man; he possesses extraordinary spiritual gifts, a reputation for words that shape reality, and a unique connection to the Divine.

That night, Hashem appears to Bilaam in a dream and opens their conversation with a strikingly simple question:

 “Who are these people with you?”

 On the surface, it sounds like small talk or a naive inquiry. But, as Chazal show us, this question brims with profound meaning. How could the Omniscient One not know who they are? The question itself demands exploration.

Three Classic Interpretations

(1) The Kli Yakar: A Rhetorical Rebuke

The Kli Yakar explains that Hashem’s question is rhetorical and scornful. Read properly, it isn’t a request for information but a rebuke:

“Who are they? They are nothing.”

Hashem is telling Bilaam: These emissaries represent corruption and moral decay. Why are you giving them respect? Why are you entertaining their mission to curse a people blessed by God? The Torah warns that keeping corrupt company corrupts the soul—just as Rambam teaches that a person’s environment profoundly shapes their character. Hashem’s question here serves as a piece of mussar: Choose your company wisely. The emissaries’ presence with Bilaam is already bringing out his worst impulses.

(2) Rashi: The Illusion of Divine Ignorance

Rashi, citing Chazal, sees in this question a test of Bilaam’s beliefs. By asking “Who are these people?” Hashem gives Bilaam space to entertain a dangerous idea: perhaps there are things God doesn’t know. This aligns with what some ancient philosophers, like Aristotle, believed—that God, perfect and infinite, is too lofty to care about or know the trivial details of human life. If Bilaam embraced this mistaken theology, he might believe he could curse Israel when God “wasn’t paying attention.”

This question opens a door for Bilaam to exercise his bechirah—his free will—to choose between recognizing God’s intimate involvement in the world or adopting a worldview that divorces God from human affairs. And indeed, Bilaam’s story is about the paradox of free will: his intentions are evil, yet Hashem turns his curses into blessings for Israel.

(3) The Sforno: A Call for Self-Reflection

The Sforno offers a more practical interpretation: Hashem wasn’t saying He didn’t know who the emissaries were; rather, He was pushing Bilaam to ask himself what their intentions were. Were they genuinely seeking his wisdom, or were they merely using him as a blunt instrument to harm Israel?

This is a timeless lesson: we must learn to distinguish between people who seek us out with sincerity and those who merely wish to exploit our abilities for their own agendas. It’s a call to be vigilant about relationships and not be blinded by flattery or ambition.

A Deeper Layer: Who Are They For You?

There’s also a deeper, existential reading: Hashem’s question echoes the question He posed to Adam in the Garden: “Ayeka – where are you?” It’s not about physical location but spiritual awareness. Here, Hashem is asking Bilaam:

“Who are these people in your eyes? What do they mean to you?”

Do you see them as partners in a just cause, or are you being seduced by their offers of honor and wealth? This question challenges Bilaam—and us—to examine our motives and relationships honestly.

Bilaam v Avraham: A Clash of Worldviews

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot (5:19) compares the students of Avraham Avinu with those of Bilaam HaRasha. Despite their shared spiritual gifts and intellectual brilliance, they stand as polar opposites:

●      Avraham exemplified generosity (ayin tovah), humility, and a desire to bring blessing to the world.

●      Bilaam embodied greed (ayin ra’ah), arrogance, and a drive to destroy what he envied.

Bilaam’s insatiable lust for honor and wealth led him to try to curse Israel. Yet, in a stunning twist, God transformed his curses into some of the Torah’s most beautiful blessings—visions of Israel’s family life, tents of learning, and dedication to God. These blessings remain with us as enduring praise of the Jewish people, despite their source being a man intent on their destruction.

Conclusion

The seemingly simple question “Who are these people with you?” encapsulates a wealth of moral and theological teachings:

●      It’s a reminder to choose our company wisely.

●      It challenges us to clarify our beliefs about God’s role in our lives.

●      It urges us to discern whether others value us for who we are or merely what we can do for them.

●      And it calls us to confront our own motives honestly.

The story of Bilaam teaches that even someone with great talents can fall prey to greed and ego if they fail to align their gifts with a higher moral purpose. But it also teaches that God’s plan will always prevail—and, sometimes, He uses even the most unlikely people to reveal profound truths.

"I'm gonna make you love me"

 An Avot baraita for Shabbat (Parashat Balak)

Readers of a certain age may recall a soul number popularised in the late 1960s by Diana Ross and the Supremes, together with the Temptations. Its title was also a catchy refrain, “I’m gonna make you love me”. While the precise means by which this objective might be achieved lie somewhere beyond the parameters of discussion on The Hanassi Blog, the need to be loved occupies an important position in Pirkei Avot.

The first Baraita in Perek 6 opens with the words

כָּל הָעוֹסֵק בַּתּוֹרָה לִשְׁמָהּ זוֹכֶה לִדְבָרִים הַרְבֵּה, וְלֹא עוֹד, אֶלָּא שֶׁכָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ כְּדַאי הוּא לוֹ. נִקְרָא רֵֽעַ, אָהוּב,

Whoever studies Torah for its own sake merits many things; not only that, but the entire world is worthwhile for him. He is called “friend”, “beloved”...

Avot 6:6 goes even further, listing being loved as one of the 48 things through which a person acquires Torah.

There’s an obvious problem here. While we can love others—whether they love us back or not—there is no mechanism that can be guaranteed to trigger love for us in someone else’s heart. Love is an emotion; it is not subject to rational analysis. How often do we see the heartbreak of lovely souls whose love for another is not reciprocated. So how do we understand these baraitot?

The simplest answer is to say that “beloved” (in Hebrew, ahuv) means “beloved by God”, but this doesn’t solve any problems. Rabbi Akiva (Avot 3:18) has already established that, even if God were to prefer those of us who study Torah for its own sake, we are all still dear to God because we are created in His image. So it must mean something else.

Rabbis Nachman and Natan of Breslov suggest that ahuv here means “loved by oneself”. Strange as this may seem, there is good reason to adopt this view. We are commanded to love others as we love ourselves—and until we love ourselves properly we cannot demonstrate the right level of love for others. However, this still requires us to explain what connection, if any, exists between self-love and (i) learning Torah for its own sake and (ii) the acquisition of Torah per se. Stretching the word ahuv well beyond its normal meaning, R’ Mordechai Frankel-Te’omim (Be’er HaAvot) suggests that it embraces all types of love that a person has for mitzvot between him and God and other people: someone who lacks this quality is by definition lacking in the degree of interest and commitment one needs in one’s learning in order to make it effective. Ultimately, though, it seems to me that we are left with questions we cannot convincingly answer.

Incidentally, these baraitot in Avot are not the only occasions on which being loved is mysteriously and apparently linked with learning Torah. Twice a day, in the paragraph that immediately precedes the recitation of the Shema, we are required to recite a blessing that is a sort of “love sandwich”: it opens with a declaration that we are loved by God and closes with a declaration that we are loved by God. The “filling” in the sandwich is a prayer that God in His mercy should help us to learn His Torah. This invites us to speculate as to why our desire to learn Torah, with God’s assistance if and when it is available, should come wrapped in His love for us. R’ Chaim Friedlander (Siftei Chaim, Rinat Chaim: Bi’urei Tefillah) offers a possible explanation: the greatest act of love that God has shown to us is His gift to us of the Torah: we should seek to reciprocate this demonstration of love by loving Him in return, as the first paragraph of the Shema requires of us.

Not just a bunch of books

Yesterday a group of us from Beit Knesset Hanassi had the pleasure of touring the new home of the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem—and it was an unforgettable experience. More than just a building full of books, the Library is a celebration of history, culture, and innovation, open to all. The new library building, was opened as recently as 2023 and is located opposite the Knesset. It is a striking piece of architecture. Designed to blend modern design with ancient inspiration, it feels both open and grounded, with natural Jerusalem stone and sweeping views of the city. What really impressed us, though, was how environmentally thoughtful the entire structure is.

One of the most fascinating features is the Library's air-conditioning system. Instead of using standard air units, it uses a unique system that draws in cool air from underground, helping regulate temperature with much less energy. This system is not only clever but also helps protect the Library's priceless collections from sudden changes in heat and humidity—essential for preserving rare manuscripts, ancient scrolls, and delicate documents. The building also makes use of natural light through large windows and skylights, reducing the need for artificial lighting during the day. Solar panels provide clean energy, and rainwater collection systems help keep the grounds green even in dry seasons.

Inside, the Library is home to millions of items in dozens of languages: books, maps, newspapers, photographs, and more. There are treasures like medieval manuscripts (including an ancient manuscript of the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah), early editions of Hebrew texts, and archives of famous writers, musicians, and thinkers. But it's not just about the past—there are vibrant displays, digital tools, and inviting spaces for reading, learning, and discussion.

What stood out most was the welcoming atmosphere. The Library is designed for everyone: students, scholars, tourists, and locals alike. Whether you’re researching family history, curious about Jewish culture, looking for a quiet spot to reflect or simply looking for somewhere to sit down with a cup of coffee, there’s a place for you here. Our tour guide reminded us that libraries are not just about storing knowledge—they’re about sharing it. The National Library of Israel does this beautifully, bridging generations and communities while caring deeply for the world we live in.

Thanks go to the Women’s League for organizing this fascinating excursion, and particularly to Shirley March and Gitta Neufeld for shouldering the organizational burden. We wish them hatzlachah rabbah with all their future ventures and look very much forward to the next time we board a bus in eager anticipation of the delights they have in store for us.

 

Beaten, but never down

 In this week's Torah reading we revisit the story of Balak, Balaam and his talking donkey. The whole episode of Balak and his failed attempt to get Balaam to curse the People of Israel is a departure from the hitherto unbroken narrative of the departure from Egypt and the increasingly problematic period that leads to the long-awaited entry to Canaan, our Promised Land. While humour and irony abound, this episode is loaded with deeper meaning and also with vivid imagery, as the wicked prophet Balaam unwillingly pours out his blessings upon the wandering tribe. But, before he does so, he receives some astringent mussar at the hands of his donkey and a sword-brandishing angel.

Never losing its freshness nor its fascination, the tale of Balaam and his donkey has inspired art, literature and music. Here, in this YouTube clip, in "Balaam and the Ass", our member Max Stern depicts it as what he calls "a contemporary duo for trombone and percussion".  Referencing the biblical passage of Bemidbar 22:21-35, Max writes:

Beaten because she strays from the way, the dumb animal -- on beholding an angel -- miraculously speaks back. More than a humorous animal tale, this is a commentary on what it means to be human. 

Credits: Contemporary Duo for Trombone and Percussion (played by Stewart Taylor, trombone and Gene Cipriani, percussion).

The third worm

  An Avot mishnah for Shabbat (Parashat Chukkat)

There are three worms in Pirkei Avot. Two—the rimah (at 3:1 and 4:4) and the tole’ah (3:1—are what one might call conventional worms. But the third, which we meet in this week’s perek is anything but ordinary: it is the miraculous shamir. At Avot 5:8 we learn of 10 things that, the Tannaim agreed, were created at the very end of the sixth Day of Creation, just before all creative work ceased for Shabbat. They are:

פִּי הָאָֽרֶץ, פִּי הַבְּאֵר, פִּי הָאָתוֹן, הַקֶּֽשֶׁת, וְהַמָּן, וְהַמַּטֶּה, וְהַשָּׁמִיר, הַכְּתָב, וְהַמִּכְתָּב, וְהַלֻּחוֹת

The mouth of the earth [that swallowed Korach]; the mouth of [Miriam's] well; the mouth of [Balaam's] donkey; the rainbow; the manna; [Moses'] staff; the shamir; writing, the inscription and the tablets [of the Ten Commandments].

The shamir, which may possibly not have been a worm, was a tiny creature that, in our tradition, was vested by God with the power to cut the huge stones that were used in the construction of Solomon’s Temple.  For two millennia the notion that a tiny worm might cut into solid rock was regarded by many as a laughable fantasy, but the discovery in 2019 of the bivalve shipworm lithoredo abatanica changed all that. This small, unprepossessing creature burrows into limestone and excretes it, creating an as-yet unsolved puzzle as to how it derives its nutrients.

The corpus of the Mishnah deals with law and (in the case of Avot) best principles of behaviour and conduct.  It is not a treatise on natural history. So what is this shamir doing in Avot? What can we learn from it today?

For the father-and-son team of Rabbis Baruch and Amos Shulem (Avot Uvanim) the creation of the shamir resonates an earlier mishnah (Avot 2:13). There Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel recommends that we take steps to foresee possible problems ahead. When God created humans he gave Adam and Eve free will. Had they opted to obey His instruction not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the human race would have lived happily ever in a sin-free world. The Temple, with its mechanism for atonement, would not have been needed and creation of the shamir would not have been called for. From this we learn that even God, in creating the world and everything in it, took the precaution of engaging in an act of creation that was purely conditional. We too should guard against events and misfortunes that may not ultimately occur.

The Ben Ish Chai (Birkat Avot) offers another answer. The ‘stone’ the shamir burrows into is the yetzer hara, the inclination to take an evil course of action.  But no matter how hard the stone is, the shamir represents the potential of even flesh-and-blood creatures such as ourselves to break it into pieces. This is learned by a kal vechomer: if even a small, weak worm can achieve this effect, how much more should we, bigger and possessed of greater strength and will-power, be able to do the same.

Though he does not mention it here, the Ben Ish Chai has support in the Gemara for use of the word ‘stone’ to refer to the yetzer hara: at Sukkah 52a, citing a verse from Ezekiel, ‘stone’ is deemed to be one of seven metaphors by which the yetzer hara is identified in Tanach. The vulnerability of stone to a slow but unremitting attack from a substance less strong than itself is also acknowledged by Rabbi Akiva’s resolution that, if the constant drip of water can wear away a rock, so too, through persistent study, might the words of Torah eventually penetrate even his then-unlearned mind (Avot deRabbi Natan 6:2, citing Job 14:19).

But there is more to the success of the shamir, and by implication to our own success, than this story suggests. Our achievements are not just credited to ourselves. There is a further ingredient—a vital ingredient without which there can be no success. As R’ Mordechai Dov Halberstam (Knesset Yisrael) comments, our efforts depend on the will of God too. We recognise this on Chanukah, when we give thanks for the victory of the Hasmoneans over the Greeks, the triumph of the weak over the strong.