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Blessings Not to be Missed (Chukat-Balak)

Blessings Not to be Missed (Chukat-Balak)
Rabbi Menachem Creditor


If we read the five books of Torah as one great arc, Genesis is the family story. Exodus begins the national story, and from there through Deuteronomy, Moses stands at the center: prophet, teacher, intercessor, and, alongside God, the central figure of Israel’s journey. By the time we reach this week’s portions, that journey is changing. The wilderness generation is giving way. The old leadership begins to disappear.

The Torah tells us, almost starkly, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died and was buried there. (Num. 20:1)” Miriam, sister of Moses and Aaron, prophet, singer, guardian of the infant Moses, leader of Israelite women, dies. And then, immediately, the next verse says, “The community was without water, and they joined against Moses and Aaron.”

There is no pause. No eulogy. No recorded mourning. No glimpse into Moses’s heart or Aaron’s grief. The people are thirsty, and they gather against their leaders. The Hebrew verb suggests that the community almost becomes an action. They gathered against Moses and Aaron. Their fear takes the shape of collective pressure.

The rabbis noticed the abruptness. They imagined that, as long as Miriam lived, a miraculous well followed the people through the wilderness. With Miriam gone, the well disappeared. This midrash may not be explicit in the biblical text, but it reveals a deep, psychological truth: Miriam provided a sustaining presence whose power was only fully recognized once she was gone.

That is often how love works. Someone steadies us, nourishes us, makes life possible in ways we barely name. Their presence becomes so constant that we do not notice how much we depend on it. Then, in their absence, the water is gone. Only then do we understand what they carried for us.

Moses, too, may be living that truth. Soon after the death of Miriam, God tells him to take the staff and speak to the rock, but Moses strikes it instead. It is worth considering whether this was not simply disobedience, but grief. Moses has just lost his sister. The people are panicking. Their protest linguistically echoes earlier rebellions, including Korach’s challenge just one Parasha before. Perhaps this time, Moses, overwhelmed and bereaved, simply cannot respond with calm.

Transitions are not only historical. They are personal. A generation changes when beloved people leave us. Leadership changes. Families change. The world changes. Even the familiar path through wilderness suddenly feels different beneath our feet.

And so tradition offers us a blessing hidden inside this textual exploration of grief: Do not wait. Do not wait until absence teaches you the value of presence. Tell your loved ones now what they mean. Name “the water” they bring. Give thanks while they can hear it.

May we be blessed to recognize the sustaining wells in our lives, and to cherish the beloveds whose presence keeps us alive.

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The Knicks and the Holiness of Teamwork (Korach)

The Knicks and the Holiness of Teamwork (Korach)

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

 

What a gift it is to have something to celebrate. There is so much pain and uncertainty in the world, and still, it matters to see New Yorkers come together in joy. It matters to see a team that represents something beautiful: not one star carrying everyone else, but an entire team building success together. Players sharing credit, loving their parents and their children, dancing silly dances, showing grit and tenderness, competing fiercely without losing kindness. Go Knicks!

That is a model we need. Even in competitive systems, there can be humility. There can be generosity. There can be shared purpose.

Which brings us to Parashat Korach.

Korach is the Torah’s story of what happens when people are not team players. Moses, Aaron, and Miriam each have a sacred role. The tribe of Levi has a sacred role. The community depends on people serving something larger than themselves.

Then Korach, Moses’, Aaron’s, and Miriam’s cousin steps forward with a slogan: “Is not the entire community holy?”

It sounds beautiful. It even sounds like Torah. Of course the people are holy. Of course every person matters. In fact this is the very language from Leviticus: “You shall be holy.” But Korach uses this familiar sacred language for self-serving purposes. Beneath his claim is not humility, not service, not shared responsibility. Beneath it is the demand: Look at me.

Korach gathers others who know how to get attention, including Datan and Aviram, figures later tradition sees as constant sources of conflict. They are the people who inflame, provoke, and destabilize. They know how to make noise. They know how to pull focus. They know how to turn a community away from its center.

And so the question of Parashat Korach is still our question: What do we do with voices that are loud, talented, and destructive? What do we do with people who are clearly in it for themselves, but who know how to command attention?

There is a midrashic teaching that Moses treated Datan and Aviram honorably, bringing them to the communal table over the years, in order to restrain their worst tendencies. That can be wise. We should not rush to turn opponents into enemies. Inclusion can sometimes soften conflict. Honor can sometimes prevent greater harm.

But Korach also teaches that inclusion without boundaries can become dangerous. Sometimes giving destructive voices a central platform does not moderate them. Sometimes this weakens the community’s core commitments. This proves true when Datan and Aviram leverage their communal position to support Korach’s demagoguery.

This is a pressing question for today’s Jewish community, for America, for Israel, and for our world of social media algorithms that reward outrage and make fringe voices sound central. How do we stay open without losing ourselves? How do we honor people without amplifying harm? How do we hold a wide tent without surrendering the values that make the tent worth holding?

There are no easy answers to this challenge. But we do know this: humility matters. Service matters. Shared purpose matters.

Which brings us back to the Knicks.

The Knicks feel like more than a sports story this week. Yes, there are stars. Yes, there were heroic moments. But what moved us was the team. The trust. The discipline. The lack of selfish drama. The tears. The sweet vulnerability. The love. The proof that every contribution mattered.

Moses, too, is remembered as the humblest of all. When Korach meets him with bombast, Moses falls on his face. He does not make leadership about himself.

That is the contrast.

Korach, Datan, and Aviram were in it for themselves. Moshe Rabbeinu was not.

So let us ask which voices we amplify. Let us ask what kind of leadership we reward. Let us build communities around humility, service, boundaries, and shared purpose. Let us remember that holiness is not a slogan. Holiness is how we show up for one another.

And today, with a full New Yorker’s heart: Go Knicks!