Balaam is hired to curse the Jews. On his way we have the famous story of his talking donkey. What is interesting is that Balaam was so concerned with cursing the Jews that he did not notice that his donkey was talking to him. We sometimes miss the obvious.

And now for a quick devar Torah.

This week we read a double portion, and the second is Parashat Balak. One question immediately comes to mind. Why is the parashah named after Balak? The most famous character is not Balak at all—it’s Balaam. Balaam occupies most of the story. He speaks the blessings, he argues with his donkey, and he becomes one of the most memorable figures in the entire Torah. Yet the parashah is named after Balak.

The answer may be that Balak is the one who sets everything in motion. He sees the Israelites approaching and decides this is not simply a military struggle but a spiritual one. He hires Balaam, believing that if he cannot defeat Israel with swords, perhaps he can defeat them with curses. Balak begins the plot, but once he does, God takes over. Balak starts the story; God determines how it ends. It reminds us that people may begin events, but ultimately God guides history.

Then there is Balaam himself. He is so focused on his mission that he completely misses what is happening right in front of him. His donkey sees the angel with the drawn sword blocking the road, but Balaam sees nothing. The donkey refuses to move, Balaam beats it, and then the donkey begins to speak. Only then does Balaam realize something extraordinary is happening.

It’s almost humorous. The donkey could speak, yet Balaam wasn’t surprised. He was so obsessed with reaching his destination that he overlooked the obvious miracle standing right before him.

Psychologists call this inattentional blindness. A famous experiment asked people to watch two basketball teams passing a ball and count the passes. While they were concentrating, a person in a gorilla suit walked across the court, stopped, waved at the audience, and walked off. Remarkably, many viewers never saw the gorilla because they were so focused on counting passes.

Balaam made the same mistake. His focus blinded him to reality.

Perhaps we do the same thing.

What’s fascinating is that throughout Parashat Balak, the Jewish people are almost passive. They have no idea that a foreign king is trying to destroy them spiritually. They are busy worrying about their own daily concerns, while behind the scenes God is protecting them from a danger they never even knew existed. The curses that were meant to destroy them become some of the greatest blessings ever spoken.

There is an important lesson here. We all become consumed by our own problems—our work, our families, our worries, our frustrations. Sometimes we become so focused on what’s directly in front of us that we fail to see the larger picture. We forget that God may be working behind the scenes in ways we cannot yet understand.

At the same time, the parashah reminds us that we must remain aware of the world around us. Not everyone who approaches us is a friend, and not every threat is obvious. We should deal honestly with our internal disagreements, but never become so divided by them that we lose sight of those who seek to harm us from the outside.

Balak teaches us to keep our eyes open—to notice what we might otherwise miss, to trust that God is working even when we cannot see it, and to remain united in the face of challenges.

Something to think about.

Aaron was known as a man of peace. He would work to make peace between people. But he was not for peace at any price. He would not sacrifice the truth for peace. He knew that appeasement never brings peace.

Aaron: Peace Based on Truth

In this week’s parashah, Aaron passes away. Unlike so many deaths described in Scripture, Aaron’s is peaceful and dignified. Moses and Aaron’s son, Elazar, accompany him to Mount Hor. There, Aaron transfers the garments of the High Priest to Elazar, symbolizing the transition of leadership to the next generation. Aaron dies, and Moses and Elazar bury him.

Jewish tradition teaches that Moses was so moved by the serenity and dignity of Aaron’s passing that he later asked for a similar end for himself.

The Torah tells us that the Children of Israel mourned Aaron for thirty days. Interestingly, when Moses dies later in the Torah, the people also mourn, but the emphasis is different. Why does the Torah specifically highlight the mourning for Aaron?

The answer lies in who Aaron was. Aaron was known as a lover of peace and a pursuer of peace. If two friends quarreled, Aaron would try to reconcile them. If a husband and wife were estranged, Aaron would quietly work to restore harmony. He did not seek recognition or public praise. He simply wanted people to live together in peace.

Yet Aaron was not an appeaser.

This is an important distinction. Peace at any price is not peace. True peace must be built upon truth.

That is why the Jewish people needed both Moses and Aaron. Moses represented the law. He taught God’s standards and principles. Aaron represented compassion and reconciliation. Law without compassion can become harsh and unfeeling. Compassion without principles can descend into chaos. A healthy society requires both.

Aaron understood that many disputes arise from misunderstandings. One person feels insulted. Another person never intended offense. When truth is clarified, peace becomes possible.

But Aaron also understood that not every conflict can be solved through compromise. Notice that Aaron plays no role in the rebellion of Korach. Moses attempted reconciliation, but he would not sacrifice truth in order to avoid conflict. Korach’s rebellion was not based on misunderstanding; it was based on ambition and a rejection of legitimate authority.

The prophet Zechariah captures this balance perfectly: “Love truth and peace.” The order matters. Truth comes first. Peace built upon falsehood is temporary. Peace built upon truth can endure.

History provides many examples.

Before the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln sought every reasonable compromise to preserve the Union. Yet there were principles he would not surrender. When secession threatened the nation itself, he concluded that preserving the Union required resistance rather than accommodation. Lincoln famously remarked that he did not know whether God was on the Union’s side, but he prayed that the Union would be on God’s side.

A different example came in 1938 with the Munich Agreement. It was hailed as bringing “peace for our time,” but it was peace purchased through concession to aggression. It lasted less than a year before Europe was plunged into war. Peace built upon illusion proved no peace at all.

Aaron teaches us to pursue peace with all our strength. We should seek reconciliation, understanding, and compassion wherever possible. But peace must never come at the expense of truth.

When peace is grounded in truth, it can endure. When peace is built upon falsehood, it merely postpones conflict.

That is Aaron’s legacy—and it is something worth remembering today.

When Miriam dies the well that has been following the Jews in the wilderness disappears. The well was in her merit. The people immediately complain to Moses forgetting all the good things that they were getting. In short, they were very ungrateful for all that they were getting.

Gratitude and Parshat Chukat

And now for a quick devar Torah.

In this week’s parshah, Chukat, Miriam dies. Immediately afterward, the well that had accompanied the Jewish people for almost forty years suddenly disappears. According to our tradition, that miraculous well existed in Miriam’s merit. Think about that for a moment. For four decades, wherever the Jewish people traveled in the wilderness, the well traveled with them. They had a constant source of water in the middle of a desert.

Yet as soon as the well disappears, the people begin to complain.

What’s striking is how quickly they forget everything they had. They had water from the well. They had manna falling from heaven every day. They were protected by the Clouds of Glory. God was providing for them in ways that no nation had ever experienced before. But once one blessing was removed, all they could see was what they lacked.

This teaches us something important about human nature. Gratitude is not always our strongest quality, especially when we become accustomed to receiving something. Once a blessing becomes routine, we stop seeing it as a blessing.

There’s a wonderful line in Fiddler on the Roof. In the opening scene, a beggar is given a kopeck. Instead of saying thank you, he complains.

“Last week you gave me two kopecks.”

The man replies, “I had a bad week.”

And the beggar answers, “So because you had a bad week, I should suffer?”

It’s funny because it captures a very human tendency. We focus on what we’re not getting instead of appreciating what we already have.

Later in the parshah, Aaron dies as well. Moses has now lost both his sister and his brother. The people continue complaining, and God tells Moses to speak to the rock. Instead, Moses strikes it.

Moses is punished because a leader is expected to maintain self-control. Yet we can understand his frustration. After everything he, Aaron, and Miriam had done for the people, the complaints never seemed to stop.

There’s a famous Israeli comedy sketch where a comedian pretends to be Moshe Rabbeinu. He says, “Any other nation would have left Egypt and reached the Land of Israel in a few weeks. You people spent the whole trip telling me which way to go.”

Then he jokes that when the manna came down from heaven, instead of celebrating free food, the people started asking, “Is there gluten-free manna? Is there diet manna?”

The humor works because it reflects a timeless truth. Human beings often fail to appreciate blessings until they disappear.

We’re grateful for our health only after we become sick. We’re grateful for freedom only when it is threatened. We take family, friends, opportunities, and even simple daily comforts for granted because they’ve always been there.

People often complain about how difficult life is economically, yet most of us live with comforts that kings in Europe could not have imagined five hundred years ago. We have access to food, transportation, medicine, communication, and conveniences that previous generations would have considered miraculous.

Parshat Chukat reminds us to stop and notice the blessings before they disappear. Gratitude is not simply saying thank you. It is learning to recognize God’s gifts while we still have them.

If we become grateful for the little things that come our way each day, we will appreciate life more, appreciate the people around us more, and appreciate God more as well.

Something to think about.

The weekly portion starts out with the Jews complaining to Moses about things but it ends with Balaam’s blessings. It is to teach us that sometimes we have to take a step back and see how others see us.

Looking at Ourselves Through Bilam’s Eyes
Parshat Chukat–Balak

This week, outside of Israel, we read the double portion of Chukat–Balak, and the juxtaposition of these two parshiyot presents a fascinating lesson.

In Parshat Chukat, the Torah seems to paint a picture of crisis and dysfunction. The Jewish people complain once again. Miriam dies, and with her passing the miraculous well that sustained the nation disappears. Aaron dies. The people are frightened and uncertain about the future. Moses, under tremendous pressure, strikes the rock instead of speaking to it and is told that he will not lead the people into the Land of Israel.

From the inside, everything appears to be falling apart.

Then comes Parshat Balak.

Balak, king of Moab, is terrified by the Jewish people and hires the prophet Bilam to curse them. Yet when Bilam looks upon Israel, he sees something entirely different from what we have just read. Instead of a nation in turmoil, he sees a people blessed by God. Instead of disorder, he sees unity. Instead of weakness, he sees strength.

The nation that looked so troubled from within appeared magnificent from without.

That contrast contains an important lesson. We often focus on our internal disagreements, our shortcomings, and our mistakes. We know where the cracks are because we live with them every day. But sometimes we fail to see what others see in us.

Bilam’s perspective reminds us that the Jewish people possess extraordinary strengths that are not always obvious from the inside. Even when we are arguing, struggling, or questioning, there remains a deeper unity that outsiders can recognize more clearly than we do ourselves.

At the same time, this lesson carries a responsibility. The Torah repeatedly teaches that our conduct affects not only ourselves but also how Judaism and the Jewish people are perceived by others. Many halachic principles are concerned with avoiding behavior that could create a negative impression. When people see Jews acting honorably, it reflects positively on Torah values. When we behave poorly, it can have the opposite effect.

This idea is especially relevant when we look back at the events of these portions. Korach’s rebellion, the people’s complaints, and even Moses’ mistake at the rock all demonstrate how internal conflicts can weaken a community. Yet Bilam’s blessings remind us that despite those flaws, there is something remarkable about the Jewish people that endures.

Sometimes we need to step back and look at ourselves through Bilam’s eyes. We should acknowledge our problems and work to correct them, but we should also remember the strengths that others see in us: our resilience, our faith, our commitment to one another, and our ability to remain a people despite every challenge.

The lesson of Chukat and Balak is that while we must never ignore our faults, neither should we forget our blessings.

Something to think about.

Sometimes we are commanded by God to do things that we don’t understand. Such as in the case of the Red Heifer. Just because we do not understand why we are commanded to do something does not make it invalid. It shows our limitations as humans.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parashah, Parashat Chukat, presents one of the great mysteries of the Torah: the commandment of the Red Heifer.

The Torah tells us that a completely red cow, one that has never borne a yoke, is slaughtered and reduced to ashes. Those ashes are then used to purify a person who has become impure through contact with death. Yet there is a paradox. The person who is purified becomes pure, while the priest who administers the ritual becomes impure. The very process that removes impurity creates impurity in someone else.

Even King Solomon, renowned for his wisdom, is said to have declared that he could understand many things, but the mystery of the Red Heifer remained beyond him.

So what is the lesson?

The lesson may be that not everything in Judaism is meant to be understood. There are commandments whose reasons are apparent to us, and there are commandments whose reasons remain hidden. The Red Heifer belongs to that second category.

We often want to know “why.” Why do we keep kosher? Why do we observe certain mitzvot? Why does God require particular practices? Sometimes we can suggest explanations. We can discuss health benefits, social benefits, or spiritual benefits. But ultimately, those are not the reasons we perform the mitzvot.

A Jew keeps kosher because God commanded it. Even if someone were to prove that non-kosher food can be healthy, that would not change the obligation. We all know people who are strong, healthy, and eat foods that are not kosher. Health may be a benefit, but it is not the foundation of the mitzvah.

The Red Heifer teaches us humility. It reminds us that God is God and we are human beings. There are realities that exist on a level beyond our understanding. Just because we do not understand a commandment does not mean it lacks meaning. On the contrary, its meaning may be deeper than anything we can comprehend.

In an age when people often believe that they must understand everything before they can accept it, the Torah teaches a different lesson. Sometimes wisdom begins with recognizing the limits of our wisdom.

The Red Heifer reminds us that faith is not the absence of thought. It is the recognition that there are truths greater than ourselves. We do the right thing not only when we understand it, but also when we trust the One who commanded it.

Something to think about.

The story of Korach and his followers is a common theme throughout history. A prime example would be the Mutiny on the Bounty. What happened to the mutineers tells us what would have happened if Korach had prevailed.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parshah, Parshat Korach, contains a lesson that repeats itself throughout human history.

Korach leads a rebellion against Moshe. On the surface, his complaints sound perfectly reasonable. Who appointed Moshe? Why should Aharon be the High Priest? Isn’t that nepotism? If the entire nation is holy, shouldn’t leadership be more democratic?

These are logical questions. The problem, as the Torah makes clear, is that Korach and many of his followers were not motivated by concern for the people. They were motivated by concern for themselves. They dressed personal ambition in the language of principle.

This reminds me of an episode from British naval history: the famous Mutiny on the Bounty.

Captain William Bligh was a strict disciplinarian. After the ship spent months in Tahiti, many of the sailors became attached to the easy life there and no longer wanted to continue the voyage. Under the leadership of Fletcher Christian, they mutinied, seized the ship, and cast Bligh and eighteen loyal men adrift in a small open boat.

What happened next is remarkable. Bligh navigated more than 4,000 miles across the Pacific in terrible conditions and brought almost all of his men safely to civilization. Far from being disgraced, he was acquitted at his court-martial and eventually rose to the rank of Rear Admiral.

The mutineers, meanwhile, established themselves on Pitcairn Island. Yet their rebellion did not produce the paradise they imagined. Violence, murder, and internal conflict followed. Most of the mutineers died violently. The dream of freedom without discipline collapsed into chaos.

Only later did one survivor, John Adams, help establish a stable and religious community on the island.

The story illustrates an important truth. Rebellion is easy. Governing is hard.

Throughout history, people have often become frustrated with leaders and institutions. Sometimes that frustration is justified. But before embracing change, we must ask a simple question: What comes next?

The Russian people were unhappy with the Tsar. The government that followed proved even more oppressive. Many Germans wanted change during the crisis years of the early 1930s. The change they received brought catastrophe. History repeatedly teaches that removing authority is easier than replacing it with something better.

Moshe understood this. He never sought power. At the Burning Bush, he repeatedly tried to avoid the position. Yet when God insisted, Moshe accepted the responsibility because someone had to lead. The same was true of Yehoshua. He did not seek greatness for its own sake. He accepted leadership because the nation needed leadership.

That may be the deepest lesson of Korach. The best leaders are often the ones who never wanted the job in the first place. They take it because it must be done. They understand that leadership is not a privilege; it is a burden and a responsibility.

Korach wanted the honor of leadership. Moshe accepted the responsibility of leadership. The Torah leaves no doubt which model creates a stable society.

Something to think about.

Today is the 3rd of Tamuz, the anniversary of Joshua stopping the sun in the Ayalon Valley. Here we see that Joshua was chosen by God to lead the Jewish people after Moses. Like Moses, he saw that he was a servant, not a ruler.

Now for a Quick Devar Torah

Today is Gimmel Tammuz, the third day of Tammuz, an important date in Jewish history that many people are not aware of. According to tradition, it was on this day that Joshua stopped the sun during the battle in the Valley of Ayalon. The event teaches us something important about leadership.

Joshua inherited the mantle of leadership from Moses. For years he was Moses’ student and disciple. Like Moses, Joshua did not seek power. He did not campaign for leadership or maneuver for position. He became leader because he was chosen by God, with Moses serving as the instrument of that choice.

What stands out about both Moses and Joshua is that neither wanted leadership for its own sake. Moses spent days at the burning bush trying to avoid the job. Yet both men understood that once they were called, they had a responsibility to serve.

This idea appears in this week’s haftarah as well. The prophet Samuel responds to the people’s demand for a king. God allows Saul to be appointed king, but Samuel makes clear what kingship means. The king is not there to enrich himself or to satisfy a desire for power. He is God’s servant and the servant of the people. Leadership is not about privilege; it is about responsibility.

That is the exact opposite of Korach’s mistake.

Korach looked at Moses and saw the trappings of leadership. He saw honor, influence, and authority. Moses, however, saw himself differently. The Torah’s greatest description of Moses is not “ruler” or “commander.” He is called Eved Hashem—the servant of God.

It is fitting that we do not know where Moses is buried. The Torah deliberately conceals his burial place so that we would never turn Moses into an idol. Contrast this with many totalitarian regimes. In the former Soviet Union, in China, and in North Korea, the bodies of founding leaders are preserved and displayed. People are encouraged to venerate the individual.

Judaism takes a different approach. We honor the teachings of our leaders, their character, and their service—not their physical remains. If someone asked us what Moses looked like, we could only guess. Perhaps he had a beard. Beyond that, we do not know, because the person is less important than the mission.

The Torah even tells us that when Moses accounted for the donations to the Mishkan, he was extraordinarily careful to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. Our sages note that he had no pockets in which anyone could accuse him of hiding money. Moses understood that leadership requires transparency and accountability.

This brings us back to Korach. Korach spoke the language of equality and fairness. His argument sounded reasonable: “The entire congregation is holy. Why should Moses and Aaron lead?” But beneath the rhetoric was a desire for power.

History teaches us to be careful when people promise equality as a path to power. The Communist movements of the twentieth century promised equality, yet often produced societies in which everyone was equally poor—except for the ruling elite, who somehow became “more equal than others.”

True leaders do not seek power for themselves. They accept responsibility for others. Moses, Joshua, Samuel, and Saul at his best understood that leadership is service. Korach saw leadership as privilege.

That difference made all the difference.

Something to think about.

Both Moses and Washington were tested on their leadership. Both showed that they did not want the power that came with their positions. They both felt that their job was to lead and when the need for them was over, they stepped down.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parsha is Korach. The rebellion of Korach is what might be called a common-sense rebellion. On the surface, Korach’s argument makes perfect sense. He says: We are all holy. The Torah calls us a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. So who are you, Moshe, to place yourself above everyone else? And why is your brother Aharon the High Priest? Isn’t this simply nepotism?

At first glance, it sounds like a reasonable argument. But, as our sages teach, Korach’s true motivation was not equality—it was ego. His real argument was: I should be the leader because I am Korach.

Moshe Rabbeinu was the opposite. At the burning bush, God had to persuade Moshe for seven days to accept leadership. Moshe did not seek power. In fact, he resisted it. Only when he understood that this was his mission from God did he accept the burden and do the best he could.

History teaches us that many rebellions begin with noble slogans but end in tyranny. There is an old saying: “One man, one vote, one time.” A leader promises democracy, gains power, and then never gives it back.

The history of the United States provides an instructive example. In 1783, before the peace treaty with Britain had been signed, the Continental Army was still in the field. Congress had not paid many of the officers for over a year. These men had families and legitimate grievances.

Some officers began discussing a plan to march on Philadelphia and force Congress to pay—or even seize power outright. This became known as the Newburgh Conspiracy.

When George Washington learned of the plot, he asked to address the officers. Many expected him to support them, since throughout the Revolution he had repeatedly pressed Congress to provide for the army.

Washington stood before them and took out a prepared speech. Then he reached for a pair of spectacles and quietly said:

“Gentlemen, you must pardon me, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.”

Many of the officers had never realized that Washington’s eyesight had deteriorated. The room was moved to tears.

Washington then urged them to reject the conspiracy and submit to civilian authority. He had the power to seize control if he wished. The army loved him. But like Moshe Rabbeinu, he understood that leadership means service, not domination.

After the war, Washington voluntarily returned to his farm at Mount Vernon. When King George III heard this, he reportedly remarked, “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.”

Great leaders know the limits of their power.

Moshe Rabbeinu understood that he was not above the Torah. He was bound by it. His task was to serve as its faithful teacher and guardian, not to override it. Every action had to conform to God’s law.

Korach, by contrast, would likely have treated the law as something to be bent to his own purposes. Moshe never sought ways around the Torah; he sought ways to fulfill it.

Perhaps that is one of the great lessons of Parshat Korach: true leadership is not measured by how much power one possesses, but by how willing one is to place oneself under the rule of law and moral principle.

Something to think about.

One of the differences between Moses and Korach is that Moses didn’t want to be the leader. He had to be convinced that there was no one else who could do the job. That is true leadership.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

In this week’s parsha, Parshat Korach, one of the figures who appears briefly is On ben Pelet. At the beginning of the rebellion he is listed among Korach’s followers, but then something very strange happens: he disappears from the story. When Korach and his followers confront Moshe, On ben Pelet is nowhere to be found.

What happened to him?

The Gemara tells us the rest of the story. On ben Pelet’s wife sat him down and asked him a simple question: “What exactly do you stand to gain from this rebellion? If Moshe remains leader, you’ll still be a follower. And if Korach becomes leader, you’ll still be a follower. Either way, you’re not the one who will be in charge.”

On answered that he had already pledged himself to Korach. So, according to the Gemara, his wife got him drunk, put him to bed, and he slept through the rebellion. By the time he woke up, Korach and his followers had met their fate—and On ben Pelet’s life had been saved.

The Sages praise On’s wife for her wisdom because she saw something much deeper. She understood that Korach’s rebellion was not really about lofty ideals. Korach dressed his arguments in beautiful language: “The entire congregation is holy. Why should Moshe and Aharon rule over us?” He spoke of equality and fairness. He accused Moshe of favoritism and nepotism.

But beautiful words do not always reveal true motives.

Throughout history, people seeking power have often wrapped their ambitions in noble slogans. They speak of equality, justice, or the good of the people. Yet sometimes beneath those words lies a simple desire for power and honor.

The communist movements of the twentieth century often promised a classless society in which everyone would be equal and exploitation would disappear. Those promises attracted millions. But in many places, once power was attained, a small ruling elite emerged while ordinary people remained poor and without freedom. As the old saying went, “All are equal, but some are more equal than others.”

The Sages suggest that had Korach succeeded, his followers would soon have begun fighting among themselves over who should lead. The rebellion was not truly about serving the people—it was about who would hold authority.

Moshe represents the exact opposite model of leadership.

Moshe never sought power. At the burning bush, God had to persuade him repeatedly to accept leadership. Again and again Moshe says, in effect, “Please send someone else.” He did not want the position. But when he realized that the task had to be done and that he was the one capable of doing it, he accepted the burden.

That is the difference between a seeker of power and a true leader.

A seeker of power asks, “What can this position do for me?”

A true leader asks, “What responsibility must I accept for others?”

The Torah describes Moshe as the humblest of men. Yet humility does not mean refusing responsibility. Humility means understanding that leadership is not about personal honor but about service.

Perhaps one of the greatest examples of this outside the Torah was George Washington. After leading the American Revolution, some wanted to make Washington king. He refused. After serving two terms as president, he voluntarily stepped down and returned to Mount Vernon. In fact, he had to be persuaded even to serve a second term. Like Moshe, Washington understood that leadership is a burden to be carried, not an honor to be sought. The true leader says not, “How can I gain power?” but rather, “How can I serve?”

The lesson applies not only to leaders but to all of us. In Jewish life there are mitzvot that need to be done, communities that need support, and people who need help. Sometimes we may prefer that someone else step forward. But if no one else will do it, perhaps that responsibility falls to us.

May we learn from Moshe’s humility, from On ben Pelet’s wife’s wisdom, and remember that true greatness lies not in seeking honor, but in serving others.

Something to think about.

The sin of the Scouts and Korah was that they let their egos rule over their reason. They wanted to be leaders not understanding that a leader is really a servant.

A Quick Devar Torah: Korach, the Spies, and the Dangers of Ego

As we enter the month of Tammuz, we know that in just a few weeks we will begin the Three Weeks, mourning the destruction of the First and Second Temples. It is striking that at this time of year we read Parshat Shelach and Parshat Korach—two parshiyot whose central tragedies are rooted in the same human failing: ego.

The scouts sent in Parshat Shelach were not ordinary people. They were the leaders of their tribes, the elite of the nation. Yet perhaps part of their fear was not simply the difficulty of conquering the Land of Israel. Once the people entered the land, leadership would change. Tribal princes who had been prominent in the wilderness might become ordinary citizens. Their status, influence, and prestige could disappear.

Their objections sounded noble. They claimed they were protecting the people. But beneath the surface may have lurked a fear that their own positions would be diminished. Ego often disguises itself as concern for others.

Korach is another example. His argument sounds democratic and reasonable: “All the congregation are holy—why should Moshe and Aaron lead?” One could almost hear him asking, “Shouldn’t there be elections? Shouldn’t leadership be shared?”

But the Torah reveals what was truly at stake. Korach did not merely oppose concentrated authority; he wanted authority for himself. His challenge was presented as being for the people, but in reality it was for Korach.

On Shabbat I came across a remarkable gematria that puts all of this in perspective. The name Shelach—shin (300), lamed (30), chet (8)—equals 338. The Baal HaTurim notes that this alludes to the destruction of the First Temple in the year 3338. Whether one takes this literally or symbolically, the message is powerful: the sins that ultimately destroy a people often begin from within.

The egotism of the spies and the egotism of Korach weakened the nation from the inside. Later generations would suffer destruction not only from external enemies, but from internal failings.

This brings to mind an interesting story from the founding of the United States. At the Constitutional Convention there arose a new question unknown to monarchies: what do you call a former president? Kings ruled until death. But what happens when a leader voluntarily steps down?

Benjamin Franklin reportedly offered a profound answer. A president, he said, is a servant of the people. When he leaves office, he is no longer a servant—he becomes one of the people. In that sense, he is promoted.

That insight captures the Torah’s vision of leadership. A leader is not a master over the people but a servant of the people. Moshe Rabbeinu embodied that ideal. Korach sought leadership without service.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons as we enter Tammuz and approach the Three Weeks. Societies are not usually destroyed only by enemies from without. Often they are weakened first by pride, ambition, and the inability of leaders to remember that leadership is ultimately an act of service.

Something to think about.