There is something unusual about this Shabbat.
If you were to attend synagogue in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, or Haifa, you would hear the reading of Parshas Balak. Yet if you were to attend services in Los Angeles, New York, London, Melbourne, Johannesburg, or countless other Jewish communities throughout the Diaspora, you would hear the combined reading of Parshas Chukat–Balak.
For those unfamiliar with the Jewish calendar, this difference may seem puzzling. How can Jews around the world, united by the same Torah and observing the same Shabbat, be reading different portions?
The answer is rooted in the calendar itself. This year, the second day of Shavuos in the Diaspora coincided with Shabbat. Since Jews outside the Land of Israel observe an additional day of the festival, they read the special Yom Tov Torah reading, while communities in Israel, where Shavuos is observed for only one day, continue with the regular weekly Torah portion. Since then, Israel has remained one parshah ahead. This week, by combining Chukat and Balak outside Israel, the Jewish world once again returns to the same place, and beginning next Shabbat, Jews everywhere will once again be reading the very same Torah portion.
At first glance, this appears to be nothing more than an interesting quirk of the Jewish calendar. Yet perhaps it reflects one of the Torah's most profound lessons about life itself.
Rarely do two people travel through life at exactly the same pace.
One family celebrates the birth of a child while another quietly mourns the loss of a loved one. One person finally receives the answer to years of prayer while another continues to wait. One business flourishes while another struggles to survive. One individual enjoys clarity and confidence, while someone standing only a few feet away wrestles with uncertainty and doubt. Looking around, it is easy to imagine that everyone else is somehow further ahead, that everyone else's journey is unfolding according to plan while ours seems filled with detours, delays, and unanswered questions.
Judaism offers a remarkably different perspective. It teaches that while our journeys may temporarily diverge, our destination remains the same. Every soul is moving toward the same purpose. And every stage of life, even those that appear confusing or painful, is part of a journey whose ultimate destination is known only to the One who guides it.
That message serves as a fitting introduction to one of the Torah's most remarkable combinations of parshiyos. At first glance, Chukat and Balak appear to have little in common. One opens with the mysterious laws of the Parah Adumah, the Red Heifer, continues through the passing of Miriam, the striking of the rock, and the copper serpent in the wilderness. The other introduces Balak, king of Moab, who hires the prophet Bilaam in a desperate attempt to curse the Jewish people, only to discover that every curse emerging from his mouth is transformed into a blessing.
One parshah seems to revolve around mystery. The other revolves around miracles. Yet beneath the surface, they tell a single story.
Both challenge us to confront one of the oldest questions humanity has ever asked: What do we do when we cannot understand what Hashem is doing?
It is a question that touches every life. Some ask it while sitting in a doctor's office after receiving unexpected news. Others ask it while standing beside a fresh grave, wondering how to reconcile overwhelming loss with unwavering faith. Some ask it after years of searching for meaningful work, for a spouse, for children, or for healing. Others ask it during quieter moments, when life simply has not unfolded according to the plans they so carefully made.
Our instinct is almost always the same. We search for explanations. We long for reasons. We want every chapter of our lives to fit neatly into a story that makes sense.
The Torah responds in a way that is both comforting and deeply challenging. Before offering explanations, it first teaches us humility. Before answering our questions, it reminds us that not every aspect of a relationship with Hashem is built upon understanding. Some parts are built upon trust.
That lesson begins with the very first words of Parshas Chukat.
The Torah declares:
זֹאת חֻקַּת הַתּוֹרָה אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה' לֵאמֹר
"This is the statute of the Torah that the Lord has commanded."
(Bamidbar 19:2)
The wording is striking. The Torah does not describe the Parah Adumah merely as another mitzvah among many. Instead, it calls it "the statute of the Torah," as though this single commandment somehow captures the essence of what Torah itself represents.
Rashi, citing the Midrash, explains that the nations of the world challenged this mitzvah because it defied ordinary human logic. How could the ashes of the same red heifer purify one individual while rendering another temporarily impure? Even King Solomon, whose wisdom surpassed that of every other human being, acknowledged that the deepest meaning of this commandment remained beyond his grasp.
At first glance, this appears to be a lesson about a particular mitzvah. In reality, it is a lesson about life.
Modern society encourages us to believe that every problem has an explanation and every mystery can eventually be solved. Given enough research, enough technology, or enough information, we assume that clarity will inevitably follow. Yet anyone who has lived long enough knows that some of life's most significant questions refuse to yield simple answers.
Why does one child recover while another does not?
Why do extraordinary people sometimes endure extraordinary suffering?
Why do acts of kindness occasionally appear to go unnoticed while cruelty seems to prosper?
These questions are not new. Moshe Rabbeinu wrestled with them. Iyov devoted an entire sefer to them. King David poured them into the words of Tehillim. Generation after generation has searched for answers, and yet the Torah begins this parshah by gently reminding us that there are dimensions of Divine wisdom that remain beyond the reach of human understanding.
Remarkably, this is not presented as a weakness of faith but as one of its defining characteristics.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe often emphasized that a Chok is not irrational; it is supra-rational. It does not contradict human reason; it simply extends beyond its limits. Just as a young child cannot possibly comprehend every decision made by loving parents, finite human beings cannot expect to fully comprehend every decision made by an infinite Creator.
This perspective does not eliminate pain, nor does it remove difficult questions. Instead, it transforms the way we carry them. Faith does not require pretending that every hardship makes sense. Rather, it invites us to believe that even when we cannot yet see the purpose, there is a purpose nonetheless. Trust begins precisely where complete understanding ends.
If the mitzvah of the Parah Adumah teaches us that there are truths beyond human understanding, the very next episode in the Torah demonstrates how quickly we can lose sight of blessings that have quietly sustained us for years.
The Torah records the passing of Miriam with remarkable brevity:
וַתָּמָת שָׁם מִרְיָם וַתִּקָּבֵר שָׁם
"Miriam died there and was buried there."
(Bamidbar 20:1)
Then, almost without pause, the Torah continues:
וְלֹא־הָיָה מַיִם לָעֵדָה
"There was no water for the congregation."
(Bamidbar 20:2)
At first glance, these verses appear unrelated. Yet our sages explain that the juxtaposition is deliberate. Throughout the Jewish people's forty-year journey in the wilderness, a miraculous well accompanied the nation in Miriam's merit. It flowed through barren deserts, sustaining hundreds of thousands of people in places where survival should have been impossible. Only after Miriam's passing did the well disappear, and only then did the people fully appreciate the extraordinary gift that had quietly accompanied them every single day.
There is something profoundly human about that reaction.
Most of us do not struggle to recognize dramatic miracles. We notice the unexpected diagnosis that suddenly disappears, the remarkable rescue after a serious accident, or the unforeseen opportunity that changes the course of a lifetime. What we often fail to notice are the quiet miracles, the blessings that become so familiar that they fade into the background of our lives.
We assume that clean water will flow from the faucet each morning. We expect our loved ones to answer the phone when we call. We take for granted the ability to rise from bed, breathe without effort, drive safely to work, and return home at the end of the day. We grow accustomed to the police officers who patrol our neighborhoods while we sleep, the firefighters who stand ready to respond to emergencies they hope never occur, the paramedics who race toward danger while others instinctively move away from it, and the members of our armed forces who spend holidays separated from their families so that countless strangers can celebrate theirs in peace. These blessings become so woven into the fabric of daily life that we rarely pause to recognize them until, like Miriam's well, they are suddenly no longer there.
Perhaps that is why gratitude occupies such a central place in Jewish life. Judaism does not ask us to be grateful only after witnessing spectacular miracles. Instead, it trains us to recognize the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary. The very first words a Jew speaks upon awakening each morning, Modeh Ani, are not a response to some dramatic event but an acknowledgment that the simple gift of opening one's eyes to a new day is itself worthy of profound gratitude.
King David captured this perspective in words that have echoed through the generations:
הוֹדוּ לַה' כִּי טוֹב כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ
"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His kindness endures forever."
(Tehillim 136:1)
The verse does not instruct us to give thanks only after we recognize God's kindness. Rather, it assumes that His kindness already surrounds us. The challenge lies not in whether blessings exist, but in whether we have trained ourselves to notice them.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe frequently emphasized that gratitude is not merely a response to blessing; it is itself a way of seeing the world. Two people can experience identical circumstances, yet one sees only inconvenience while the other recognizes countless opportunities to thank Hashem. Gratitude, in this sense, is not simply an emotion but a discipline, one that transforms not only how we view our past, but also how we face our future.
This lesson resonates deeply with anyone who has devoted time to serving others. Chaplains, first responders, healthcare professionals, military personnel, and law enforcement officers often witness life at its most fragile. They know how quickly ordinary routines can be interrupted by tragedy, and they understand that the things most people consider routine are, in fact, precious gifts. Speaking with families after an unexpected loss has a way of reshaping one's perspective. The conversations rarely revolve around promotions, possessions, or financial success. Instead, people speak about one more conversation they wish they had, one more embrace they wish they had given, one more opportunity to tell someone, "I love you."
Perhaps Miriam's well disappeared not merely because her life had come to an end, but because the Jewish people needed to rediscover what they had stopped seeing. Sometimes Hashem removes our awareness of abundance only long enough for us to recognize how abundantly we have been blessed.
It is against this backdrop that the Torah presents one of the most difficult moments in Moshe Rabbeinu's extraordinary life.
The people, frightened by the sudden absence of water, turn once again to complaint. Their words are filled with frustration, disappointment, and fear. Hashem responds with clear instructions. Moshe is to gather the nation, speak to the rock before their eyes, and water will emerge. Instead, in a moment that has been analyzed by commentators for more than three thousand years, Moshe strikes the rock.
The water flows. The people's immediate need is met. Yet the Torah reveals that something far more significant has occurred.
Hashem tells Moshe and Aharon:
יַעַן לֹא־הֶאֱמַנְתֶּם בִּי לְהַקְדִּישֵׁנִי לְעֵינֵי בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לָכֵן לֹא תָבִיאוּ אֶת־הַקָּהָל הַזֶּה אֶל־הָאָרֶץ
"Because you did not believe in Me enough to sanctify Me before the eyes of the Children of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this congregation into the land that I have given them."
(Bamidbar 20:12)
Few episodes in the Torah have generated more discussion than these words. Rashi focuses on the distinction between speaking to the rock and striking it. Ramban examines the broader context of the event. Sforno, Kli Yakar, Ohr HaChaim, and countless others each uncover additional layers of meaning. Their interpretations differ in detail, yet they share a common conviction: this moment was not about a simple technical mistake. It concerned the unique responsibility borne by those entrusted with leadership.
For nearly forty years, Moshe had carried the burdens of an entire nation. He had confronted Pharaoh, split the sea, ascended Mount Sinai, pleaded for forgiveness after the Golden Calf, and shepherded a generation through the harsh realities of the wilderness. If anyone could be forgiven for a moment of exhaustion, surely it would be Moshe. Yet the Torah teaches that greatness carries with it an equally great responsibility. Those whose lives influence others are called upon to demonstrate not only strength during moments of triumph, but also composure, patience, and faith during moments of frustration.
This is not merely a lesson for prophets or national leaders. Every parent leads. Every educator leads. Every supervisor, coach, chaplain, police sergeant, military commander, volunteer coordinator, and community member leads someone. People may forget many of our words, but they rarely forget how we responded when circumstances became difficult. Our reactions during moments of pressure often teach more powerfully than our speeches during moments of calm.
At first glance, the next episode appears almost disconnected from everything that precedes it. The Jewish people once again find themselves confronting hardship, this time as venomous serpents spread through the camp. Many are bitten, and many die. The nation turns to Moshe with repentance, acknowledging that they have sinned by speaking against both Hashem and His faithful servant. Moshe prays on their behalf, and Hashem responds with a command unlike any other in the Torah.
Rather than removing the snakes, Hashem instructs Moshe to fashion one.
וַיֹּאמֶר ה' אֶל־מֹשֶׁה עֲשֵׂה לְךָ שָׂרָף וְשִׂים אֹתוֹ עַל־נֵס וְהָיָה כָּל־הַנָּשׁוּךְ וְרָאָה אֹתוֹ וָחָי
"The Lord said to Moshe: 'Make for yourself a fiery serpent and place it upon a pole. Whoever has been bitten shall look upon it and live.'"
(Bamidbar 21:8)
Moshe obeys.
וַיַּעַשׂ מֹשֶׁה נְחַשׁ נְחֹשֶׁת וַיְשִׂמֵהוּ עַל־הַנֵּס וְהָיָה אִם־נָשַׁךְ הַנָּחָשׁ אֶת־אִישׁ וְהִבִּיט אֶל־נְחַשׁ הַנְּחֹשֶׁת וָחָי
"Moshe made a copper serpent and placed it upon the pole. Whenever a serpent bit someone, he would look toward the copper serpent and live."
(Bamidbar 21:9)
To the casual reader, this passage raises an obvious question. Did the copper serpent possess miraculous healing powers? Could an object fashioned from metal cure the venom coursing through a person's body?
The Mishnah answers unequivocally:
"Did the serpent kill? Did the serpent give life? Rather, when Israel looked upward and directed their hearts toward their Father in Heaven, they were healed."
(Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 3:8)
The serpent itself possessed no mystical power. It was never meant to become an object of worship or even an object of healing. Instead, it served as a spiritual compass. It forced the people to lift their eyes upward, beyond the immediate crisis, beyond the fear, beyond the pain, and to remember the true Source of healing and hope.
What an extraordinary lesson for our own generation.
We live in an age of remarkable technological achievement. Never before has humanity possessed so much knowledge, so many tools, and such extraordinary medical advances. We should celebrate these blessings, for Judaism teaches that physicians are partners with Hashem in the sacred work of healing. Yet technology, expertise, and human ingenuity can sometimes create the illusion that we alone are in control.
Parshas Chukat gently reminds us otherwise.
The Torah never asks us to ignore medicine; it asks us to remember Who created the wisdom that makes medicine possible.
It never asks us to reject science; it asks us to recognize that scientific discovery itself is one of the many gifts Hashem has bestowed upon humanity.
The copper serpent invited the Jewish people to lift their vision beyond the instrument and toward its Creator. That invitation remains just as relevant today. We are encouraged to use every resource available to us, while never forgetting that our ultimate trust rests not in the instrument, but in the One who guides the outcome.
It is striking that this lesson appears immediately before the Torah introduces one of its most unlikely characters, a man whose very presence seems designed to challenge everything the Jewish people have learned thus far.
His name was Bilaam.
By every human measure, Bilaam should have succeeded. He was renowned as a prophet of immense spiritual stature among the nations of the world. Balak, king of Moab, believed that if anyone possessed the ability to alter Israel's destiny, it was Bilaam. He assembled dignitaries, offered enormous wealth, and promised unprecedented honor if only Bilaam would pronounce a curse upon the advancing Jewish nation.
The scene is almost cinematic. A powerful king, terrified by the growth of Israel, seeks to win a battle not through swords or armies, but through words. He understands something that many people overlook: words possess extraordinary power. They can inspire courage or spread despair. They can strengthen relationships or destroy them. They can heal wounds that are invisible to the eye or create wounds that last a lifetime.
Balak believes that if the right words are spoken by the right person, Israel's future can be rewritten.
Yet before Bilaam even opens his mouth, the Torah reveals a truth that echoes throughout Jewish history:
לֹא תֹאֵר אֶת־הָעָם כִּי בָרוּךְ הוּא
"You shall not curse the people, for they are blessed."
(Bamidbar 22:12)
Those seven Hebrew words contain one of the most reassuring messages in all of Tanach.
Hashem does not tell Bilaam that Israel is too powerful to curse.
He does not tell him that Israel has earned immunity because of its perfection.
He simply states a fact.
"They are blessed."
The blessing already exists.
Bilaam is powerless to remove what Hashem has already bestowed.
Throughout Jewish history, there have always been individuals and nations who believed they could determine the destiny of the Jewish people. Pharaoh attempted it through slavery. Haman attempted it through genocide. The Greeks attempted it through cultural assimilation. The Romans attempted it through exile. Countless others have followed.
Yet generation after generation, the Jewish people have endured because our future has never rested solely in human hands.
The same principle applies on a deeply personal level.
There are moments when the voices around us become discouraging. Sometimes they come from critics. Sometimes they come from circumstances. Sometimes, if we are honest, the loudest voice of discouragement comes from within ourselves.
We begin to believe that our failures define us, that our mistakes have permanently diminished us, or that our future is limited by our present circumstances.
Parshas Balak quietly reminds us that no human voice, not even our own, has the authority to cancel a blessing that Hashem has already placed within our lives.
That does not mean life will be free from hardship. It does mean that hardship never possesses the final word.
Only Hashem does.
And when Bilaam finally stands upon the mountain, opens his mouth, and prepares to pronounce the curse that Balak has paid so dearly to obtain, something extraordinary happens.
Every curse becomes a blessing.
Every attempt to diminish Israel instead elevates her.
Every word intended to weaken instead strengthens.
Without realizing it, Bilaam becomes one of the Torah's greatest teachers.
Sometimes Hashem is working most powerfully on our behalf in places we cannot even see.
Sometimes the conversations taking place beyond our awareness are shaping blessings we have not yet received.
Sometimes what appears to be opposition is merely another chapter in a story whose ending has already been written by the One Who promised long ago:
"You shall not curse the people, for they are blessed."
The climax of Bilaam's story arrives not through the dramatic confrontation with Balak, nor through the now-famous episode of the talking donkey. It comes quietly, almost unexpectedly, as Bilaam ascends the mountain overlooking the encampment of the Jewish people.
He had climbed that mountain with a singular purpose. He expected to see vulnerability. He expected to discover weakness. He expected to find some flaw that would justify the curse Balak so desperately desired.
Instead, he saw something entirely different.
Standing before him was not merely a nation of former slaves wandering through the wilderness. He saw families whose homes were arranged with extraordinary dignity and modesty. Our dages explain that the entrances to their tents were carefully positioned so that no family looked directly into another family's home. Even in the desert's temporary conditions, privacy, respect, and sensitivity toward one another remained sacred values.
In that moment, Bilaam understood that this nation's true strength lay not in its numbers, nor in its military potential, nor even in the miracles it had witnessed. Its strength lay in the character of its people.
Unable to utter the curse he had intended, Bilaam instead proclaimed words that Jews have recited every single morning for thousands of years:
מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל
"How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel."
(Bamidbar 24:5)
How remarkable that one of the most beloved verses in Jewish liturgy was spoken not by Moshe Rabbeinu, not by Aharon HaKohen, nor by one of Israel's prophets, but by a man who had every intention of destroying them.
There is a profound lesson hidden within that irony.
Sometimes Hashem chooses the least likely messenger to reveal the greatest truth.
History is filled with moments when those who opposed the Jewish people inadvertently strengthened them. Attempts to extinguish Jewish identity often inspired renewed commitment. Periods of persecution gave rise to extraordinary acts of courage, compassion, and resilience. What was intended as a curse became the catalyst for blessing.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe frequently emphasized that one of the defining characteristics of the Jewish people is the ability to transform darkness into light. This does not mean denying pain or pretending that suffering is good. Rather, it means refusing to allow darkness to have the final word. Even experiences that appear overwhelmingly negative can become the foundation upon which future growth, kindness, and spiritual strength are built.
Anyone who has spent time with first responders or military personnel has witnessed this phenomenon firsthand.
A firefighter who responds to tragedy often develops an even deeper appreciation for life. A police officer who encounters violence daily frequently becomes the first to recognize quiet acts of kindness that others overlook. A combat veteran who has witnessed humanity at its worst often dedicates their life to protecting the vulnerable. Chaplains regularly meet individuals who emerge from unimaginable hardship not with bitterness, but with greater compassion, humility, and empathy.
None of these people would choose the suffering they endured.
Yet many discover that while they cannot choose their circumstances, they can choose what those circumstances ultimately produce within them.
That is precisely what Bilaam's blessings reveal.
Hashem does not merely protect His people from curses.
He transforms them.
The attempted curse itself becomes part of the blessing.
This idea echoes throughout Jewish history and, indeed, throughout our personal lives. Looking back, many of us can identify experiences that once seemed devastating but eventually redirected us toward opportunities we never could have imagined. A closed door led to a more meaningful career. A painful disappointment deepened our relationships. An unexpected setback became the catalyst for personal growth or spiritual awakening.
Rarely do we recognize these blessings while they are unfolding.
Usually, we see them only in hindsight.
That is why Chukat and Balak belong together.
The mystery of the Parah Adumah teaches us that we will not always understand what Hashem is doing.
The disappearance of Miriam's well teaches us not to overlook the blessings already surrounding us.
Moshe's encounter at the rock reminds us that leadership, and indeed every life of influence, requires faith even under pressure.
The copper serpent teaches us to lift our eyes beyond immediate circumstances and place our trust in our Father in Heaven.
And Bilaam teaches us that while we may not recognize it in the moment, Hashem is often transforming what appears to be a curse into a blessing long before we become aware of it.
Suddenly, these are no longer separate episodes connected only because they happen to appear in consecutive chapters of the Torah.
They are chapters of the same story.
They are chapters of our story.
Perhaps that is why this week's unique calendar arrangement serves as such an appropriate introduction. For several weeks, Jews in Israel and throughout the Diaspora have been reading different Torah portions. It would have been easy to view one community as "ahead" and the other as "behind." Yet the calendar reminds us that such comparisons miss the point entirely. The journeys were temporarily different, but the destination remained exactly the same.
The same is true of our lives.
Some people appear to arrive at milestones earlier than others. Some build careers more quickly. Some marry sooner. Some recover faster. Some seem to receive blessings effortlessly, while others wait with extraordinary patience. We are often tempted to compare our chapter ten with someone else's chapter twenty.
The Torah gently cautions us against doing so.
Hashem is not writing one story.
He is writing millions of stories simultaneously.
Each unfolds according to a timetable known only to Him.
Faith, therefore, is not believing that every chapter will be easy.
Faith is believing that every chapter belongs to a story whose Author sees the ending from the very beginning.
Perhaps that is why Jews throughout the world will once again read the same parshah next week.
The temporary divergence was never the destination.
Unity was.
And perhaps that has always been the message of the Torah itself.
We do not all walk identical paths.
We do not all face identical challenges.
We do not all receive identical blessings.
Yet every sincere step taken toward Hashem, every act of kindness, every quiet prayer, every word of encouragement, every moment of gratitude, and every decision to choose faith over despair brings us closer to the same destination.
As the Jewish people have discovered throughout history, and as each of us has the opportunity to discover in our own lives, the greatest blessings are often the ones we could not see while they were still unfolding.
May we merit the wisdom to trust Hashem even when we do not yet understand His ways, the humility to recognize the blessings already present in our lives, and the faith to believe that even today's unanswered questions may one day become tomorrow's greatest sources of gratitude.
For when life doesn't make sense, the Torah gently reminds us not to stop walking.
It reminds us to keep walking - with faith.
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