Balak feared what he could not control. He saw the Israelites from afar, numerous, restless, full of stories he didn’t know. And so he did what frightened rulers have often done. He summoned a voice to curse them. He hired Balaam to speak them out of existence.
But something extraordinary happened. The prophet who came to curse found himself unable to do so. Instead, standing on the heights, Balaam saw the people not as a threat but as a tapestry of beauty. And from his lips came words no one had planned: Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov, mishkenotecha Yisrael. How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.
A blessing emerged where a curse had been commissioned.
The Torah doesn’t often deal in such irony. This moment stands out precisely because it reminds us that there are forces in the world, both divine and human, that refuse to let hatred have the final word. That even those who approach with malice may, by grace or by mistake, stumble into truth.
It would be tempting to dismiss the episode as mythic whimsy. But we have made Balaam’s words our own. Each morning, as we enter our sanctuaries, we recite his blessing. We take the words of a reluctant outsider and bind them to the threshold of our prayer.
This is not forgetfulness. It is spiritual audacity. To take what was never intended for us and sanctify it. To weave even the voice of an enemy into our liturgy is to affirm that transformation is possible and that nothing, not even ill will, is beyond redemption.
As we enter Shabbat, perhaps we carry this quiet confidence. That we are a people not only of memory but of reimagining. That the ancient reflex to curse can still be interrupted. That even in times of fear, blessing may yet slip through.
And when it does, we will recognise it. We will gather it. And we will teach our children to sing it.
Shabbat shalom.
