Korach
Numbers 16:1 – 18:32 

By Jen Smith 

Parshat Korach is a dramatic story of rebellion and ego, of swallowed tents and heavenly fire. Korach, a Levite by birth, challenges Moses and Aaron, claiming: All the community is holy, every one of them, and God is in their midst; why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s assembly? (Numbers 16:3). On the surface, it sounds like Korach is a staunch advocate of spiritual equality. But as the story unfolds, we learn that this is more of a power grab than holy protest. 

Jewish mysticism, especially the Kabbalistic tradition, invites us to look beneath the surface of this tale. According to the Zohar, while Korach was right in his belief that all souls contain holiness, he ultimately failed to understand that holiness isn’t homogeneous. Just as each sefirah (divine quality/emanation) has its own unique function and specific spot on the Tree of Life, so too does each human soul have a distinct purpose. Moses represents Chochmah (wisdom), Aaron represents Chesed (lovingkindness), and Korach, though spiritually potent, misaligned himself with Gevurah (judgment and ego). 

From Korach’s pursuit of (self-righteous) judgement we learn that terrible things can happen when we pursue or assume roles that don’t match our personal spiritual gifts. As our great rabbinic tradition teaches, the world is best sustained when each soul tends its corner of creation with humility and devotion. 

Jewish tradition consistently upholds the value of anavah (humility) not as weakness, but rather as strength. Moses is called the humblest of men, not because he thought little of himself, but because he made space for others. Korach, by contrast, filled the room with his ego, allowing no room for other people or opinions. 

For me, Korach is a reminder of the Jewish value of machloket l’shem shamayim, disagreements for Heaven’s sake. Argument is a part of Jewish life, and our Jewish tradition loves debate. In fact, the Talmud is essentially a volume of arguments recorded for centuries!  In Pirkei Avot 5:17 we learn that a dispute like that of Hillel and Shammai will endure even today because the argument is for and in pursuit of truth. The dispute of Korach and his followers lives as a finite cautionary tale because Korach’s indignation was rooted in pride and power, not in pursuit of truth to better understand God’s Divine will. 

In our modern world, we are surrounded by loud voices online, in politics, even in our communities, all clamoring for attention, authority, and control. The story of Korach challenges us to ask: What is the source of our leadership? Our outrage? Our ambitions? 

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, offers a timeless insight into leadership when he wrote that leadership is primarily about responsibility, not popularity. He argued that “Leadership does not mean doing what people want. It means having the courage to do what is right.” 

Korach sought popularity and influence over responsibility or service. Moses, however, led for the good of the people, not the glory of title or power – even when it meant confronting loneliness, criticism, and an immense burden. In our time, we have unprecedented access to platforms. Anyone can “go live” and speak to the world. But Parshat Korach reminds us that sacred influence requires introspective work, humility, and spiritual responsibility.  

Not every loud voice is a prophetic one, and not every rebellion is holy. And yet, according to Kabbalistic teachings, Korach’s soul was not destroyed forever. In fact, there is a midrash that teaches that Korach still sings from beneath the earth that Moses was right, and the Torah is True. But here is my favorite part: Not only does Korach sing Moses’ praise from his grave, but there is also a belief that in the time of redemption, Korach’s energy will be uplifted and used for good – redemption doesn’t even exceed Korach’s grasp! Even the misguided parts of us that struggle with pride, regrets, missteps, and fiery ambition can one day be elevated, transformed, and redeemed. 

This week, let us celebrate the path of Moses; not because he was perfect, but because he suppressed his own ego for the sake of the Israelites, for peace, and for the sake of our collective Jewish community. In a world full of Korachs, may we have the courage to be a little more like Moses. 

Parshat Sh’lach
Numbers 13:1 – 15:41 

By Jen Smith  

In Parshat Sh’lach, twelve spies are sent to scout the land of Canaan. They all see the same terrain: lush, fertile, and inhabited territory claimed by mighty civilizations who build fortified cities. And yet, while only two of the spies, Joshua and Caleb, return with a message of hope, the others are consumed by fear: “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in theirs.” (Numbers 13:33) 

This verse reveals something deeper than military anxiety. It uncovers a spiritual crisis: a failure of the Israelites to see themselves as reflections of the Divine. Though made b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s own image, endowing them with strength, spirit, dignity and purpose, fear distorts their vision of the land and, more importantly, themselves. 

One of my favorite writers, Mark Twain, once said, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear; not absence of fear.” Fear is not shameful, it is human. The question is: what do we do with it? 

In a world shaken by violence, where Israel faces a daily barrage of threats and missiles from Iran and war overshadows everyday life, it might seem reasonable to feel like grasshoppers again. Small, vulnerable, utterly powerless. But Sh’lach reminds us that we are not defined by the fear we face, we are defined by how we rise and face our challenges. 

The Zohar, Judaism’s mystical text, offers us a lens, teaching us that the human soul is like a flame flickering in the winds of history: waxing and waning at times, but never extinguished. God’s image of us is far from a fragile prototype sketch, it is a living fire!  Like the light of the menorah in last week’s Torah portion, that inner light burns even when the world trembles. Joshua and Caleb’s courage didn’t come from perfect confidence, it came from remembering who they were: children of God made in His divine image – bearers of sacred light. Joshua and Caleb were able to see through fear to the promise ahead. 

Positivity is not about pretending that everything is fine. Jewish tradition never requires us to deny fear. Instead, it asks us to root ourselves in emunah, faith, and to act as emissaries of light, not purveyors of shadow.  We are encouraged to remember that even in crisis (especially in crisis) we are not alone. We are each infused with the capacity to bring wisdom, compassion, and healing to our communities and the world around us. We know this because we are made in God’s image. When we recognize that in ourselves, we’re able to lift the veil to reveal the same divine potential in others and shift our perspective from despair to sacred determination. 

Even in the face of war, uncertainty, and despair we are commanded to choose life, pursue peace, and embody hope. This is divine courage. 

Sh’lach reminds us of our sacred purpose to be a light unto the nations, leading with light that transcends any shadow and lifting our voices for promise instead of panic. Only then can we transformed the Giants of a strange land into opportunities for holy resistance, healing, and mastering our fear through the light of faith. As the shadows draw near in the coming weeks, may we remind ourselves and each other that the image of God is not only found in the remote spiritual oasis of the heavens, but also thriving within every human heart waiting to be seen, kindled, and shared. 

Shabbat Shalom. 

Beha’alotecha
Numbers 8:1–12:16 

By Jen Smith 

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, begins with a quiet, almost tender image: Aaron is commanded to light the lamps of the Menorah in the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary in the wilderness. Beha’alotecha means to raise up, which is fitting because when you raise up the lamps, not just light them, but raise them up, the flame burns on its own. Our sages teach that this phrase reflects the deeper truth that spiritual leadership does not just inspire and ignite others – it helps them sustain their own divine flame. 

But this Torah portion is hardly about gentle illumination. It quickly turns turbulent. The Israelites grumble about their journey, cry out in hunger for meat, and lash out against Moses. Even Moses’ sister, Miriam, is caught up in a moment of gossip only to be stricken in return with tzara’at, a skin affliction. Beha’alotecha is a mirror of our world, also characterized by flashes of holiness within a storm of confusion and unrest. 

And so we find ourselves here, in our wilderness, waking up to news that Israel has attacked military targets deep within Iran in response to persistent threats from a regime that has long pledged harm to the Jewish state and its people. Regardless of one’s politics, the moment is heavy, and the question hangs in the air: What does it mean to be a light when the world is so dark? 

The Zohar (Judaism’s primary mystical text) teaches that the soul of a person is ner Hashem, a candle of God. Each of us is born with a divine spark. But that spark does not always burn brightly. Sometimes, it flickers under the heavy weight of war, fear, or uncertainty. Sometimes, our sense of holiness is dimmed by hatred and violence, even when it feels justified. And yet, Beha’alotecha insists we raise up the light. We raise up the light in the wilderness, and we raise it higher still when it is concealed by the shadows of evil. 

This is not just poetic metaphor. The Torah teaches us about the tikkun olam, the repair of the world, and reminds us that even in our response to existential threats, we are nevertheless tasked with choosing the actions that do not diminish the holiness of our own souls. Protecting ourselves and our community is sacred, but so is restraint. Our power as a people is not simply defined in terms of defense, but also in discernment; in knowing when to light the flame of peace, and when to shine a fiery torch in warning. 

Beha’alotecha also teaches about memory and direction. The Israelites are led by the Shechinah, God’s divine and cloud-like presence, which lifts and moves unpredictably, and still the Israelites must follow. But the mystics say that the cloud was not simply above them, but rather, it dwelled within them. This divine presence is also the voice that whispers: Do not forget who you are. Do not forget your purpose. 

So what is our purpose? That question echoes as war drums beat half a world away. We are here, I believe, to be the bearers of sacred contradiction. To be strong and compassionate. To defend life while pursuing peace. And even when we fight for peace, we are challenged to remember that our highest aspiration is kedusha (holiness), not conquest. 

At the end of this parsha, Moses cries out a prayer that has echoed across centuries: 

Ana Adonai, refa na la (Please, God, heal her now.) 

Moses says this not for himself, but for Miriam, who just wronged him. Can you imagine? In a moment of pain and betrayal, he chooses healing. And perhaps that is the greatest teaching of all: we must hold fire and forgiveness in the same breath. But this strength must always walk hand in hand with humility, so that even when Israel, out of necessity, strikes against darkness, we must continue pray not only for Israel’s victory, but for healing. For peace. And most importantly, for the day we no longer need to lift weapons at all. 

 Beha’alotecha reminds us that the light we are called to raise is not naïve. It’s not soft. It’s the stubborn, sacred light of our people who, generation after generation, continue to believe in redemption even when the road is dusty and blood-stained. May we all, in our own ways, be like Aaron. Loving and pursuing peace, raising up the flames, lighting lamps in the darkness, and standing tall in the glow of something greater. 

Shabbat Shalom.