Truly Seeing (Balak)
Parashat Balak is filled with magic, mystery, and moral clarity. A prophet named Bilaam is hired to curse our people. Hired to curse…. what a broken world. But something holy, something fascinating, something powerful happens instead.
Bilaam knows he cannot manipulate God for personal gain, and yet he accepts payment and set off. When he finally sets out on his way, it’s his donkey—not Bilaam himself—who sees an angel with a flaming sword blocking their path. The donkey sees what the prophet cannot.
And when the donkey swerves, injuring Bilaam’s leg, Bilaam responds with violence, hitting his steed. Again, the donkey tries to avoid the angel, again Bilaam is hurt, again he lashes out. And then—a miracle. God opens the donkey’s mouth, and the animal speaks:
“What have I done to you that you have struck me these three times?” (Num. 22:28)
In that moment, Bilaam sees. He hears. His eyes are opened not by divine fire but by the painful realization that the one he beat—the one he overlooked—was the one who saw the truth all along.
This is Torah’s way of unmasking those who mistake power for wisdom, who use violence as proof of strength, who assume prophecy without listening. And, with a dash of narrative humor, Torah reminds us: even a donkey can speak truth to power. Sometimes especially a donkey.
This isn’t just ancient irony. It’s instruction for today.
We live in a world where many are overlooked, often invisible. During the early days of the pandemic, we used the word “essential” to name them. We saw them, perhaps for the first time. They were the ones who carried us through treacherous paths, who noticed what we didn’t.
This Torah portion is about sight, what it means to truly see.
When Bilaam finally arrives and sees the Israelite camp spread out before him, his hired curse turns into a blessing:
“Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael — How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.” (Num. 24:5)
These words echo every morning in Jewish prayer. But the rabbis, in their poetic creative ways, interrupted the flow. They take Bilaam’s words and immediately follow them with a verse from Psalms (5:8):
“But as for me, through Your abundant love, I enter Your house; I bow down in awe at Your holy Temple.”
Bilaam’s words are reframed. Through rabbinic Midrash, he’s transformed—not just from a prophet of curses into a mouthpiece of blessing—but into someone who becomes aware of the source of blessing. It’s not truly his power. It’s God’s abundant love.
Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell teaches that this rabbinic move teaches us something profound: we must not confuse clarity with completeness. Even those of us who think we see clearly, only see partially. Holiness is revealed not through dominance, but through humility.
So I ask, in Rabbi Elwell’s words:
“Are we ready to open our tents and our hearts to those who wish to dream and build sacred communities—not just tolerating difference, but celebrating it?”
In a time of deep fear, of real pain—21 months and one day since October 7—I admit, I haven’t always had the energy to ask those kinds of questions. My heart has been bruised. Perhaps yours has too. And still—this is the sacred task: to reimagine community, to expand the tent, to bless those we were taught to curse, and to open our eyes to the messengers standing right in front of us.
Friends, the curses of our world are loud. So we must be louder with our blessings, remembering that our sight is at best partial.
May we, by acknowledging the unseen majesty of others, come to hear the blended voices of ancestors sing through us once again:
Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov.
How beautiful. How fair our world can be.
How possible this vision might become through us.
Amen.
