וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם֮ וַעֲשִׂיתֶם֒ כִּ֣י הִ֤וא חׇכְמַתְכֶם֙ וּבִ֣ינַתְכֶ֔ם לְעֵינֵ֖י הָעַמִּ֑ים אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִשְׁמְע֗וּן אֵ֚ת כׇּל־הַחֻקִּ֣ים הָאֵ֔לֶּה וְאָמְר֗וּ רַ֚ק עַם־חָכָ֣ם וְנָב֔וֹן הַגּ֥וֹי הַגָּד֖וֹל הַזֶּֽה׃

The spiritual drama of the Torah unfolds as a plea from the Creator to the Children of Israel not simply to submit and commit, but to remember. This instruction to be attentive and guard against distraction is the key to the Divine–human relationship:

...רַ֡ק הִשָּׁ֣מֶר לְךָ֩ וּשְׁמֹ֨ר נַפְשְׁךָ֜ מְאֹ֗ד פֶּן־תִּשְׁכַּ֨ח
Only guard yourself and be very attentive to your soul, lest you forget… 
- Devarim (Deuteronomy) 4:9

On the surface, the admonition is to safeguard the laws of Torah. But on a deeper level, this mitzvah of remembrance is not merely to preserve a system of behaviors, but to recognize the root and reason for the behaviors – the ever-present Beingness that we call the Divine. We need to remember the Divine because It is never absent; it is our awareness of It that slips away.

This is one of the great paradoxes of spiritual practice. We cannot become any closer to Hashem than we already are. The awareness reading these words right now is not separate from the One we seek. Presence is not something to manufacture; it is what remains when we stop chasing fulfillment in some imagined future, when we let go of our preoccupation with the past, and awaken to the miracle of simply being.

And yet, if it’s this simple, why can it seem to be so difficult?

Rabbi Pinḥas of Koretz explained that when people gather on Shabbat to pray and hear words of Torah, they become filled with awe and fervor. But, as soon as Shabbat is over, they return to exactly as they were before. The inspiration vanishes as though it had never happened. He compares it to someone recovering from madness who cannot remember anything that occurred during the period of confusion.

His words are not a criticism but a diagnosis: the obstacle is not that awakening is inaccessible; the obstacle is that we forget. Spiritual amnesia arises when the ordinary habits of mind convince us that fulfillment or wholeness or peace lie somewhere else, sometime later, in some other circumstance. But this is only because we have become used to this moment; in truth, we need not reach God; we need only remember That which has never ceased to be present: the Living Presence behind all things.

This choice is ever before us; at every moment this potential to realize the Divine asks of us to be realized. The Baal Shem Tov explains:

מֵהַבַּעַל שֵׁם טוֹב פֵּירֵשׁ עַל פִּי ״ נָשָׁיו֙ הִטּ֣וּ אֶת־לְבָב֔וֹ״ (מְלָכִים א׳ י״א:ד׳): שֶׁאֵין לְךָ שׁוּם תֵּיבָה בַּתּוֹרָה שֶׁאֵינָהּ סוֹבֶלֶת שְׁתֵּי מַשְׁמָעוּיוֹת, שֶׁהוּא בְּחִינַת דְּכַר וְנוּקְבָא וכו׳. אִם כֵּן, אֵין לְךָ שׁוּם דָּבָר נִבְרָא בָּעוֹלָם שֶׁלֹּא יִהְיֶה כָּלוּל מֵהַכֹּל. וְהַבְּחִירָה נְתוּנָה לוֹ לְהַטּוֹת לְאֵיזוֹ בְּחִינָה שֶׁיִּרְצֶה. לְכָךְ: ״ נָשָׁיו֙ הִטּ֣וּ אֶת־לְבָב֔וֹ.״

From the Baal Shem Tov: An interpretation of the verse, “His wives inclined his heart…” (I Kings 11:4). There is no word in the Torah that cannot bear two meanings, corresponding to the aspects of masculine and feminine, and so on. Therefore, there is also no created thing in the world that does not contain all things. And a person is given the freedom to incline toward whichever aspect (or potential) they choose. Therefore, “his wives inclined his heart.”  - Keter Shem Tov 1:4

...נָשָׁיו הִטּוּ אֶת־לְבָבוֹ – His wives inclined his heart... – I Kings 11:4

In the world view of the hasid, Torah is the blueprint for all creation. In reflecting on the fact that words can hold multiple meanings, the Baal Shem concludes that everything – every moment, every relationship, every situation, every encounter – also holds within it many potential ways of being. Our freedom lies in our ability to choose which beḥinah – that is, which aspect or quality or potential, to cultivate. Do we focus on fear or trust? Resentment or gratitude? Judgement or love? The circumstances in which we find ourselves are not the decisive factor; the decisive factor is the decision of how to “incline the heart.” The choice is yours. 

...פֶּן־תִּשְׁכַּ֨ח – lest you forget…
​If we forget who we are beneath the drama, if we forget the Divine Presence shining through every moment, then our hearts are easily carried wherever habit, fear, or desire happen to lead them. But when we remember, we discover something extraordinary: we have the freedom to move the universe in the direction of Oneness, which is to say, the direction the Oneness “wants” to move through us. 

This freedom is not about control, but the letting go of control. The winds and currents of experience continue to move as they will: joy and sorrow, success and disappointment, certainty and confusion all continue to come and go. Our freedom lies in returning, again and again, to being awake to the miracle of Being now revealing Itself. 
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Like steering a ship across a dark sea – the waves continually push the vessel off course, and there is nothing we can do to stop the movement of the ocean. But in the distance stands a lighthouse whose radiance never moves. The work of the sailor is not to calm the sea, but simply to keep turning the wheel back toward the light. So too with our spiritual lives: we will forget, we will drift. We will become distracted by the thousand concerns of ordinary life. But none of that is failure; it is simply the ocean doing what oceans do. Our part is the simple act of remembering, and in remembering, gently inclining the heart once again toward the One.

רַ֡ק הִשָּׁ֣מֶר לְךָ֩... פֶּן־תִּשְׁכַּ֨ח – Only guard yourself … lest you forget…
Be attentive – not because the Divine disappears when we forget, but because remembering is the doorway through which we discover the freedom that has always been ours: the freedom to awaken, to return, and to become, moment by moment, a conscious expression of the One Presence that is Ever-Present. 

The power of decision is to gather together the different strands of who we are – the opinions, feelings, memories, impulses, drives and goals that make up the sometimes conflicting dimensions of “me” – and forge them into a unity through the affirmation of commitment:

אִישׁ֩ כִּֽי־יִדֹּ֨ר נֶ֜דֶר לַֽי–ה–וָ֗–ה אֽוֹ־הִשָּׁ֤בַע שְׁבֻעָה֙ לֶאְסֹ֤ר אִסָּר֙ עַל־נַפְשׁ֔וֹ לֹ֥א יַחֵ֖ל דְּבָר֑וֹ בכְּכָל־הַיֹּצֵ֥א מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה׃
If a person vows a vow to the Divine or swears an oath to forbid something to one’s soul, they shall not empty their word; everything that comes from their mouth, so shall they do.
- Bamidbar (Numbers) 30:3

On the surface, this is the mitzvah of having integrity; if you say you are going to do something, do it. Who you are today and who you were yesterday should not be two different things; be your word. This is a basic ethical principle, but it is not merely ethical; it is an embodiment of the spiritual core of Judaism – the affirmation that Hashem Ekhad—God is One. 

Hashem Ekhad can be understood in the ordinary sense of being a creed or belief, affirming the existence of one God rather than many gods. But when we understand that the Divine Name is simply a permutation of the verb “to be” – היה hei-yud-hei – a deeper implication becomes visible: Being Itself is One; there is only One Reality, appearing in countless forms. We cannot “see” this Unity, and our experience over time may seem to defy any sense of unity, and yet: there is only One Reality. This simple fact becomes spiritually significant when the Oneness of Reality becomes our “God” – meaning, we hold up the Unity as our ideal, and hold ourselves accountable to reveal the Unity in our lives. This brings us back to integrity: by being our word, we worship the Oneness; we deify Reality.  

But this is not easy. Anyone who has spent a little time observing the mind knows that we contain many different voices. One part of us makes a commitment while another part immediately begins negotiating with it. One part longs to awaken while another simply wants to remain comfortable. And yet, when we become present, we discover that beneath all of these changing movements there is a radically simple truth: awareness itself is already one. Thoughts come and go, emotions come and go, intentions come and go, but awareness remains the space within which it all lives. We need not strive for this oneness; it is literally what we are. The challenge is forging our lives into an expression of the oneness that is already here.
And yet, there is a dimension of our decision-making that is not within our power. How do we embody Oneness when integrity becomes impossible? 

וְאִם־הֵנִ֨יא אָבִ֣יהָ אֹתָהּ֮ בְּי֣וֹם שׇׁמְעוֹ֒ כׇּל־נְדָרֶ֗יהָ וֶֽאֱסָרֶ֛יהָ אֲשֶׁר־אָסְרָ֥ה עַל־נַפְשָׁ֖הּ לֹ֣א יָק֑וּם וַֽי–הֹ–וָ–ה֙ יִֽסְלַח־לָ֔הּ כִּי־הֵנִ֥יא אָבִ֖יהָ אֹתָֽהּ׃
But if her father restrains her on the day he hears, none of her vows or self-imposed obligations shall stand; Hashem will forgive her, since her father restrained her.
- Bamidbar (Numbers) 30:10

Who actually is this “daughter?” The daughter is us! We are the ones who make sincere commitments, who speak from the deepest truth we know in a given moment, only to discover that circumstances have changed or that life has unfolded differently from how we imagined. The Torah is holding up integrity as a Divine obligation, and yet it is also acknowledging that we are not ultimately in control of Reality.
Who, then, is the “father?”

There is a phrase in the Aleinu prayer: Emet Malkeinu. This is usually translated, “Our King is true.” But a more literal and also infinitely more spiritually useful reading would be: Truth Itself is our King. That is, the truth of this moment, the truth of what actually is, always has the final word. We can make commitments, and we should. We can strive to keep our word, and we should. But the unfolding of Reality belongs to Something infinitely greater than our plans. And this is precisely why the Torah can say, in reference to the daughter who breaks her vow, “Hashem will forgive her.” It is not to negate the importance of integrity as service of the Divine, but because the truth of whatever unfolds is itself not separate from the Divine.  

And this is the paradox: While we are called to take our commitments seriously, we are also called to recognize that we are not in control. We tend to waste energy judging ourselves for not living up to our intentions, imagining that if we were truly awake we would never fail. But forgiving ourselves for not being enlightened is itself a form of enlightenment. The moment we stop arguing with Reality, we can begin to excavate a deeper surrender and humility that aligns with what is actually happening, rather than with the story of how we think things should have happened. This is not a mere self-justification or “letting ourselves off the hook.”  It is simply a letting go. How do we do it?

  לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יְ-הֹ-וָֽ-ה׃
You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the children of your people. Love your neighbor as yourself: I am Hashem.
- Vayikra (Leviticus) 19:18

Before this most famous mitzvah to love our neighbor, the Torah first tells us not to take vengeance and not to hold onto resentment, hinting: the same ego that judges others is the ego that judges ourselves. As long as we insist that another person should have been different from who they were, we will continue insisting that we should have been different from who we were. But when we begin to let others be as they are, without carrying the burden of resentment, something within begins to shift. The forgiveness that we extend outwardly is after all, the forgiveness that we are. When we stop struggling against What Happens and instead allow ourselves to meet the moment fully, we discover that forgiveness, love and Presence are not separate practices at all; they are simply different expressions of Being the Oneness. 

Parshat Pinhas begins in the aftermath of the dramatic events at the end of Parshat Balak: as the Israelites stand on the threshold of entering the Promised Land, the Moabite and Midianite women seduce the Israelite men, enticing them to worship the idol, Baal Peor. As a result, a devastating plague breaks out among the Children of Israel. Zimri, an Israelite chieftain, publicly brings Cozbi, a Midianite princess, into his tent. In response, Pinhas kills them both, bringing the plague to an end. 
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At the beginning of our parshah, Hashem responds to Pinhas’ violent act with a seemingly ironic instruction to Moses:
פִּֽינְחָ֨ס בֶּן־אֶלְעָזָ֜ר בֶּן־אַהֲרֹ֣ן הַכֹּהֵ֗ן הֵשִׁ֤יב אֶת־חֲמָתִי֙ מֵעַ֣ל בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל... לָכֵ֖ן אֱמֹ֑ר הִנְנִ֨י נֹתֵ֥ן ל֛וֹ אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֖י שָׁלֽוֹם׃
“Pinhas, son of Elazar, son of Aaron the priest, has turned back My wrath from the Children of Israel... Therefore, say: ‘Behold, I grant him My Covenant of Peace.’” — Bamidbar 25:11–12

What is the meaning of this – that an act of violence is rewarded with a b’rit shalom – a “Covenant of Peace?” Rashi explains it simply an expression of gratitude. Just as a person shows warmth and friendship toward someone who has done them kindness, so God expresses peaceful feelings toward Pinhas. Ibn Ezra approaches the verse differently: it means that Pinhas need not fear retaliation from Zimri's family; the covenant is merely a promise of protection. But there is a deeper level…

Have you ever been moving steadily toward some intention, only to find yourself suddenly pulled off course? Perhaps it was a distraction—something enticing that tempted you away from your goal. Or perhaps it was something darker: self-doubt, discouragement, anxiety, or the feeling that you just aren’t capable or deserving of completing what you began.

This is the spiritual DNA beneath the surface of the story. The Israelites are standing on the bank of the Jordan River, moments away from entering the Land toward which they have journeyed for forty years. Yet just before crossing the threshold, they become completely seduced away from their purpose; the obstacle appears at precisely the moment they are closest to fulfillment.

How do we respond when this happens in our own lives? Do we battle our inner obstacles with force as did Pinhas did, or is there another way? The Talmud offers a powerful image:
In the future, the Holy Blessed One will bring the yetzer hara (evil inclination) and slaughter it before the righteous and before the wicked. To the righteous it will appear like a lofty mountain, but to the wicked it will appear like a hair’s breadth. Both these and these will weep...— Sukkah 52a

The passage begins with an image of violence—the evil inclination is “slaughtered,” echoing the story of Pinhas. But then the imagery shifts; the obstacle is no longer an enemy to decimate; it is either a high mountain to climb, or a tiny thin hair that possesses no real power.

These two images offer a deeper view into our life challenges. The mountain represents the necessity for will. We need the determination to remain faithful to our deepest intention, refusing to be seduced by whatever would pull us away from it. The hair, on the other hand, represents the necessity for consciousness. Seen clearly, the obstacle has no insurmountable power over us; it is only compelling when we become unconscious of our own potential and hypnotized by the drama.

These two together reveal a path: Willpower is necessary, but alone it is not enough. Our will must be directed not merely toward “powering through,” but toward remaining present. In Presence, we dis-identify from the distracting or seductive impulse, because we become the awareness that beholds the distraction, fear, depression, self-doubt, or whatever. And in this state of Presence, we discover (again and again) that this awareness we are is infinitely more vast and powerful than whatever experience arises within it. The obstacle may still be there, but it no longer compels us. This cultivating and strengthening of consciousness cannot happen without some resistance to work against, and so points to a profound spiritual truth: the obstacle is not something standing between us and the sacred task. The obstacle is the sacred task.

Once we have tasted genuine spiritual freedom—that experiential knowing of ourselves as spaciousness—it is natural to think that whenever we lose that state, we have somehow fallen away from the path. We long to get back to that peace we’ve tasted. But the very experience of exile is the place where the deepest practice begins: witness the pain. Rather than trying to escape the obstacle, turn toward it. The darkness is, it turns out, the path for discovering the Light that beholds the darkness. In this sense, every obstacle becomes a kind of Mount Sinai—a mountain we ascend not by escaping the world, but by bringing wholehearted awareness to it; the mountain is climbed by coming fully to This. And in this act of Presence, we can realize: not only is the obstacle the path, it is also a Divine gift—the gift that allows us to reach the Divine.

Seen this way, Rashi’s understanding of the Brit Shalom as gratitude gains a new dimension: if we wish to “slaughter” that which distracts and seduces us into unconsciousness, we must do it through peace—meaning, simply be present with it. Staying awake to the obstacles, you will begin to see that they are actually all just “thin hairs” in the face of the Vastness that is your deepest nature.

​​The parshah opens with the story of king Balak, ruler of Mo’av. He’s terrified of the Israelite encampment in the plains of Moav, so he sends messengers to request that the sorcerer/prophet Bilam curse the Children of Israel. After several refusals, explaining that he can only do what God allows him to do, Bilam receives Divine permission to meet the king, but that he should only say the words that God puts in his mouth. So, he sets out to meet the king. On the road, Bilam’s donkey sees an angel blocking their way and veers off the road, pressing Bilam’s leg against a wall. Bilam beats the donkey with a stick, after which the donkey magically speaks to him. Bilam then also sees the impeding angel, who identifies himself as satan – Satan! But this is a good “Satan” who tells him to go meet the king, but only say the words that God tells him to say. When Bilam arrives, Balak takes to a high place in view of the Israelite camps. Three times, from three different vantage points, Bilam pronounces blessings instead of curses, and also prophesies about the end of the days and the Messianic Era. Later, the Moabites and Midianites try a different tactic, seducing the Israelite men into idolatry which causes a plague that is eventually stopped by Pinhas.

וַתֵּ֣רֶא הָאָתוֹן֩ אֶת־מַלְאַ֨ךְ יְהֹוָ֜ה נִצָּ֣ב בַּדֶּ֗רֶךְ וְחַרְבּ֤וֹ שְׁלוּפָה֙ בְּיָד֔וֹ וַתֵּ֤ט הָֽאָתוֹן֙ מִן־הַדֶּ֔רֶךְ וַתֵּ֖לֶךְ בַּשָּׂדֶ֑ה וַיַּ֤ךְ בִּלְעָם֙ אֶת־הָ֣אָת֔וֹן לְהַטֹּתָ֖הּ הַדָּֽרֶךְ׃
The donkey saw the angel of Hashem standing in the road, with his drawn sword in his hand, so the donkey swerved from the road and went into the field. Bilam beat the donkey to turn her back onto the road.
- Bamidbar (Numbers) 22:23, Parshat Balak

When Rabbi Yosef Yitzhak of Lubavitch was four years old, he asked his father, Rabbi Shalom Ber: “Abba, why do we have two eyes, but only one mouth and one nose?”

“Do you know your Hebrew letters?” asked Shalom Ber. “Yes,” replied the boy. “And what is the difference between the letter שׁ shin and the letter שׂ  sin?” he continued. “A שׁ shin has a dot on the right side, and a שׂ sin on the left.” “Right! Now, this letter shin represents fire, and fire makes the light that we see by. The dots on the right and left are like your two eyes. Accordingly, fire has two opposite qualities. On one hand, it can give us life by keeping us warm and cooking our food; that’s the dot on the right. On the other hand, it can burn us; that’s the left dot. Similarly, there are things you should look at with your right eye, and things you should look at with your left eye. You should always see another person with your right eye, and candy and toys with your left eye!”

This “fire” represented by the letter שׁ shin is the fire of awareness itself. It in the Torah in many places: it is the fire of the burning bush, calling Moses to his  life purpose – awareness of one’s path; it is the amud ha-aysh, the pillar of fire that led the Israelites through the wilderness – awareness navigating choices in life; it is the fire that erupted forth on Mt. Sinai at the giving of the Aseret HaDibrot – the Ten Commandments – awareness of the spiritual principles guiding our actions; and all of these are essentially the same: deep discernment – which is why it also the fire of danger: the plague of fiery hail in the ten plagues, as well as the fire that consumed Nadav and Avihu when they brought their offerings without enough awareness.

These two manifestations of “fire” are the “yes” and the “no” of Presence: yes to this moment as it is, no to reaching, to insisting. Yes to Presence with other beings, no to the “candy” and “toys” that keep us stuck. How can we discern which eye to look through?

וַתֵּ֣רֶא הָאָתוֹן֩ אֶת־מַלְאַ֨ךְ יְהֹוָ֜ה נִצָּ֣ב בַּדֶּ֗רֶךְ - The donkey saw the angel of Hashem standing in the road…
The “donkey” is our physical body, giving us subtle signals that something is not quite right, whispering that we need to pay deeper attention.

וְחַרְבּ֤וֹ שְׁלוּפָה֙ בְּיָד֔וֹ וַתֵּ֤ט הָֽאָתוֹן֙ מִן־הַדֶּ֔רֶךְ וַתֵּ֖לֶךְ בַּשָּׂדֶ֑ה - so the donkey swerved from the road and went into the field…
The “field” is the key! Rather than continuing mechanically along a predetermined path, take a pause in the “field” – the spacious field of awareness within which this experience is now arising. Step away from the momentum of your agenda and just notice; be careful to not simply override your intuition and barrel forward:

וַיַּ֤ךְ בִּלְעָם֙ אֶת־הָ֣אָת֔וֹן לְהַטֹּתָ֖הּ הַדָּֽרֶךְ - Bilam beat the donkey to turn her back onto the road.
How often do we do the same thing? The body is speaking, but we push it aside. Instead, pause; enter the field and listen, as when the donkey opens her mouth and Bilam can finally hear her voice. Then the curse can transform into blessing: 

מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב - How lovely are your tents, O Jacob…
The “tents” are really the same as the “donkey” – our physical bodies. When we become attentive to hear its “voice,” the body becomes Mishkanotekha Yisrael – the Sh’khinah dwelling with Yisrael – the fire of awareness, alive and awake through this marvelous vehicle of our physical bodies. And through our rootedness in this indwelling Presence that we are, our paths are illuminated – both the “yes” and the “no” – the fire of awareness is our guide.

A Levite named Korakh, together with his supporters, rebel against Moses and Aaron, arguing that “everyone is holy.” Moses tells them to offer special incense in the morning, and that Hashem will reveal the truth. The next day, they all bring their incense and the earth opens to swallow up all their tents, and a fire consumes the rebels. The people begin to complain, and a plague starts to move through the entire community. Aaron stops the plague by offering his own incense. A chief from each tribe brings their staves, and Aaron’s staff miraculously blossoms, showing that he is the chosen one for the priesthood. We then get instructions about various offerings, and among these, the “Covenant of Salt” is mentioned, which is the origin of dipping the hallah in salt at the Shabbat table today…

The story of Korakh’s rebellion begins with the words, Vayikakh Korakh – literally, “Korakh took.” This is understood to mean that he separated himself, meaning he that he removed himself from the Israelite community to oppose Moses and Aaron. But the phrase is strange; why does it say he “took,” and what exactly did he take? There is a hint in this verse from Psalm 23:

:תַּעֲרֹךְ לְפָנַי שֻׁלְחָן נֶגֶד צֹרְרָי, דִּשַּׁנְתָּ בַשֶּׁמֶן רֹאשִׁי, כּוֹסִי רְוָיָה
You spread a table before me in the presence of my tormentors; You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. - Psalm 23:5
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The word צֹרְרָי tzor’rai, “my tormentors,” comes from the same root as צַר tzar, “narrowness” or “constriction.” It is related to the word for Egypt, מִצְרַיִם Mitzrayim, which in Hasidic teaching becomes a symbol for inner slavery to constrictive thoughts and emotions – the feeling of being trapped, squeezed, or limited.
On the literal level, the image is one of a feast is spread out on a table before you (לְפָנַי l’fanai, “before me”) while your “tormentors” sit across from you (נֶגֶד neged, “against”). But another way to read it is that l’fanai and neged are different ways of saying the same thing, and that actually, the delicacies on the table are themselves the tormentors! 
We know this dynamic – we see something we want, something we imagine will make us feel complete, but we know it’s not good for us or appropriate. And yet, the feeling is so strong – it seems that fulfillment lies just ahead, in the next bite, the next achievement, the next recognition, the next experience; we are in conflict, in Mitzrayim, the narrow space of inner slavery. What is the remedy? 

...דִּשַּׁנְתָּ בַשֶּׁמֶן רֹאשִׁי – You anoint my head with oil… 
“Oil” is consciousness – like the burning oil of the menorah, illuminating the sacred dwelling space of the Divine: the Light of Presence. In other words, rather than trying to get rid of the desire, bring awareness into the feeling. Notice that sense of incompleteness that drives the desire; notice the impulse to grasp after something outside yourself in order to feel whole.
The moment we become aware in this way, something begins to shift. The desire is still there, but we are no longer trapped inside it, no longer confined within its narrowness. There is a vast space within which these feelings are arising and that space is already Whole. This brings us back to our parshah:

...וַיִּקַּח קֹרַח – Korakh took...
What did he take? In his rebellion against Moses and Aaron, he shows that he wants something – not food or possessions, but status, power, control, recognition. His argument against them is compelling:

...כִּי כָל־הָעֵדָה כֻּלָּם קְדֹשִׁים וּבְתוֹכָם יי – For the entire community is holy, and Hashem is within them.”
The statement is true; the Divine is present within everyone. But Korakh isn’t motivated by a desire for justice or equality, but by his own feeling of insufficiency, by his desire to acquire something for the self. And yet, Moses responds with a gesture of self-abnegation:

.וַיִּשְׁמַע מֹשֶׁה וַיִּפֹּל עַל־פָּנָיו – When Moses heard this, he fell on his face. 
There’s a story that an opponent of the Hassidic movement once came to the Alter Rebbe – Rabbi Sheur Zalman of Liadi – to attack him with accusations of arrogance: “You claim to be a holy man – a leader of Hassidim –but look how you sit alone in your study, separate from the people – and with an attendant at your door, only admitting people according to your command – how fancy of you! Isn’t that arrogance? Who do you think you are anyway?”

The tzaddik put down his head, resting it in his arms, as one does during the penitential Takhanun prayer. After a few minutes, he lifted his head and spoke: “The expression the Torah uses for ‘leaders of the people’ is ‘roshei alfei Yisrael – heads of the thousands of Israel,’ from which we learn that our leaders are known as ‘heads.’ Now it is true, the head and the body are joined together, and neither can exist without the other. Nevertheless, they’re clothed separately and differently. Why is this? Because the head must be distinct from the body, just as the ‘heads’ of any generation must be distinct from the people.”

The questioner was impressed with the answer and went on his way. But the Rebbe’s little son (who would eventually be known as Reb Dov Bear of Lubavich), had a different question for his father: “Abba, in order to give that answer, there was no need to rest your head in your arms. Why didn’t you give him the answer immediately?”
The Alter Rebbe replied: “In Parshat Korakh, when Korakh and his followers accused Moses and Aaron of abusing their power as leaders, we read that Korakh accused them with these words: ‘Umadua tit-nasu – And why do you exalt yourselves?’ Then we read, ‘Vayishma Moshe, vayipol al panav- Moses heard, and fell on his face.’ Only after he fell on his face, did Moses answer Korakh. So we might ask the same question there – why did Moses have to fall on his face first, before giving his answer?
“Because Moses suspected that perhaps there was some truth to the accusation; perhaps there was a bit of ego involved in his leadership, so he had to go inside himself and search inwardly to see if there was some truth there. Then, after searching within and purifying himself from any ego (as the Torah says, ‘V’ha’ish Moshe anav me’od –  Moses was exceedingly humble’), he was able to respond with clarity. A similar thing happened with me here today.”

This is a profound model for spiritual practice. When an impulse arises, whether for pleasure, control, recognition, or approval, we do not need to suppress it, and we do not need to obey it. We can simply turn toward it with awareness – accept it, know it, but don’t buy into it. Let it be as it is without becoming captured by it.
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In this way, we step out of the narrowness of the impulse and into the spaciousness of awareness. We discover that Wholeness is not waiting on the other side of getting what we want; Wholeness is available now, if we but bring our attention to the feeling of Not-Wholeness. This quality, native to the consciousness that we are on the deepest level, is represented by the letter ג gimel: fullness, abundance, sufficiency. On the level of ego, we feel: “I need something more in order to arrive into completeness.” But the practice of Presence reveals: our cup is already overflowing. 

The parshah begins with the Children of Israel encamped in the wilderness of Paran, and Moses sends out twelve spies to the land of Canaan. After forty days, they return with great reports, carrying some of the land’s bounty: an enormous cluster of grapes, a pomegranate and a fig. But, ten of the spies warn that the inhabitants of the land are giants and warriors; only Caleb and Joshua insist that the land can be conquered. The people side with the ten naysayers and complain that they would rather return to Egypt. In response, Hashem decrees that the entire present generation of the Children of Israel will wander in the desert for forty years until they all perish, and only their offspring will enter the Promised Land. When they hear this news, a group of them storms a mountain on the border, but they are swiftly defeated by the Amalekites and Canaanites. Hashem then gives mitzvot about the offerings of grain, wine and oil that their descendants should bring when they enter the land, as well as the mitzvah to consecrate a portion of dough when making bread, which is the origin of challah. Finally, a man is found gathering sticks on Shabbat. In response, the mitzvah of tzitzit, which are special fringes worn on the four corners of garments, is given as a bodily reminder of the mitzvot.

​שְׁלַח־לְךָ֣ אֲנָשִׁ֗ים וְיָתֻ֙רוּ֙ אֶת־אֶ֣רֶץ כְּנַ֔עַן אֲשֶׁר־אֲנִ֥י נֹתֵ֖ן לִבְנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל
 אִ֣ישׁ אֶחָד֩ אִ֨ישׁ אֶחָ֜ד לְמַטֵּ֤ה אֲבֹתָיו֙ תִּשְׁלָ֔חוּ כֹּ֖ל נָשִׂ֥יא בָהֶֽם׃

Send for yourself people to spy out the land of Canaan that I am giving to the Children of Israel, one person from each of their ancestral tribes you shall send, each one a leader among them... 
- Bamidbar (Numbers) 13:2, Parshat Bamidbar​

​On the literal level, the Children of Israel stand on the threshold of entering the land, and scouts are sent ahead to investigate. Why is this land is so crucial to the tradition? Because it points to an inner reality – the “land” before which you and I now stand at the threshold. There is a hint in the verse recited before each chapter of Pirkei Avot:

:וְעַמֵּךְ כֻּלָּם צַדִּיקִים לְעוֹלָם יִירְשׁוּ־אָרֶץ
And your people are all tzaddikim; forever they shall inherit the land.
- Isaiah 60:21
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The verse connects the idea of the people tzaddikim with their eternal connection with the land. But in what sense are “all” the people tzaddikim? A tzaddik is a spiritually perfected person, and all Jewish people are obviously not spiritually perfected. And yet, according to our tradition (and according to your own experience, if you take the time to notice) there is a level of our being that is untainted by our imperfections:

:אֱלֹהַי, נְשָׁמָה שֶׁנָּתַתָּ בִּי טְהוֹרָה הִיא
My God, the soul that You have placed within me is pure.

Beneath all of our shifting thoughts and feelings, beneath our imperfect personalities, there is a dimension of being that remains untouched: the n’shamah, or soul. The n’shamah is not ambiguous or debatable; it is the awareness that reads these words right now. All experience appears and within it and disappears back into it, yet it is not diminished by any perception; in this sense, every person is already whole at this deepest level of being. And this is why the “tzaddik” inherits the “land” – free from the seductive and dramatic pull of thoughts and feelings, one comes “home” to the present moment; the “Holy Land” is, it turns out, always the place upon which we now stand.
What keeps us from entering it? 
In the story, the spies report that the land is inhabited by giants. They are unable to muster the strength to enter the “land” because they fear the “giants.” But for us, the “giants” are fear! Fear, anxiety, judgement, resentment, and the persistent sense that something is wrong with our situation or with ourselves—these are the “giants” that block a deeper intimacy with life. But there is a way through these obstacles:

:רַבָּן גַּמְלִיאֵל הָיָה אוֹמֵר: עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וְהִסְתַּלֵּק מִן הַסָּפֵק
Rabban Gamliel used to say: Make for yourself a teacher, and remove yourself from uncertainty.
- Pirkei Avot 1:16

The simple meaning of this aphorism is that a teacher can help us navigate confusion. But on a deeper level, Aseh l’kha rav, “Make for yourself a teacher” means: make whatever is present into your teacher! Furthermore, v’histalek min a safek – “remove yourself from uncertainty” doesn’t mean that we learn more stuff; it means we should stop fixating on what cannot be known. Anxiety thrives on uncertainty because it continually asks questions that have no certain answer. To be anxious is to be tangled in the web of uncertainty, ignoring what we actually can know: the truth of this moment, as it is – the actual flow of life as it is happening, now. 
When we allow present experience to become our teacher, attention begins to return from imagined futures and unresolved scenarios, into its own inherent Wholeness. We become students of what is rather than prisoners of what might be.
Caleb and Joshua represent this deeper realization, and so stand apart from the other spies: 
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...אַךְ בַּיהוָה אַל־תִּמְרֹדוּ וְאַתֶּם אַל־תִּירְאוּ אֶת־עַם הָאָרֶץ כִּי לַחְמֵנוּ הֵם
Do not rebel against Hashem, and do not fear the people of the land, for they are our bread…
 -Numbers 14:9

What does it mean that “they are our bread?”
The very obstacles we fear can become nourishment when we meet them consciously. Fear itself can remind us to return to Presence. Anxiety can become a signal that attention has wandered into an imagined future; emotional pain can be the beacon back to ecstasy. Seen in this way, the “giants” are no longer our enemies; they become our teachers.
The “land” is always here. The invitation is always present. The question is whether we will listen to the fearful voices that insist we cannot enter, or whether we will learn to trust that deeper dimension of ourselves: “Your people are all tzaddikim; forever they shall inherit the land.” That is, we come into the sacred ground of this moment through this very simple act of paying attention.

דַּבֵּר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן וְאָמַרְתָּ אֵלָיו בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹת...
Speak to Aaron and say to him: “When you kindle the (Menorah) lamps…”
— Bamidbar (Numbers) 8:2

The word בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ beha’alotkha is normally understood to mean “when you kindle,” but the root of the word is עלה alah, which literally means “to rise,” “to ascend,” or “to elevate.”
Why? On a simple level, it’s a description of the flame that naturally rises upward. But on a deeper level, if we see flame as a metaphor for consciousness, then the “kindling of the lamp” hints at the capacity for consciousness to become “elevated” and transcend the ordinary concerns and preoccupations of the mind.
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Consciousness is the one essential ingredient behind all experience, but ordinarily it remains in the background. We are hardly aware that we are aware; we are barely conscious of being conscious. But when we witness whatever is present in consciousness on purpose, something remarkable happens: not only are we awakening from our unconscious slumber and recognizing this miracle of being conscious, but we can also realize: we are consciousness.
And in this recognition, there is a profound freedom from emotional resistance and drama. Experiences come and go, but we are the unbroken light of awareness within which it all unfolds.

Rashi notices something else: he asks why the passage about lighting the Menorah appears immediately after the account of the tribal princes dedicating the Mishkan. His answer comes from Midrash Tanchumah:

.כְּשֶׁרָאָה אַהֲרֹן חֲנֻכַּת הַנְּשִׂיאִים חָלְשָׁה אָז דַּעְתּוֹ
When Aaron saw the dedication of the princes, his mind weakened.
In other words, Aaron became discouraged. The leaders of all the tribes had brought gifts for the inauguration of the Mishkan, but neither he nor his tribe was invited to participate. He felt deflated, left out. But Hashem consoles him: 

חַיֶּיךָ, שֶׁלְּךָ גְדוֹלָה מִשֶּׁלָּהֶם – “By your life! Yours is greater than theirs.”
On the surface, Hashem is simply reassuring Aaron that is his role of tending the sacred lamps is more important than the gifts of the princes. But there is a deeper hint in the phrase: shelkha gedolah mishelahem — literally, “yours is greater from theirs.” Meaning that the gedolah, the greatness that is “yours,” becomes visible when you remove yourself from looking externally at what is “theirs.” In the Midrash, Aaron suffers as a result of comparing himself to the princes. But Hashem points him back toward shelkha — “that which is yours” – the lighting of the menorah, representing the unbroken light of consciousness behind the judging mind and the troubled heart. 

And this is the message to all of us: when we stop looking over our shoulder at someone else and instead return to what is here, now, the Inner Vastness can reveal itself. 

There is another layer to Hashem’s response in the Midrash. The princes participated in a one-time dedication ceremony. It was beautiful, meaningful, and perhaps necessary—but it was a single event. Aaron’s task was different: 

לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד׃  …for kindling lamps continuously. - Sh’mot (Exodus) 8:2
Earlier, the Torah describes the lighting of the Menorah as something to be done tamid—continuously. The inauguration happened once, but the lamps had to be tended again and again, day after day; this is the nature of spiritual life.
People sometimes long for a dramatic experience: a breakthrough, a revelation, a peak moment of awakening. Yet the deepest transformation is usually found not in a single event but in a continual returning. Again and again we forget; we become lost in thought, comparison, worry, and judgment. But again and again we can return to our Essence as the awareness that reads these words right now. This is the “raising up the lamps” – the bringing of awareness to awareness. We can then shift from being absorbed in the contents of experience to becoming conscious of the experiencing itself; this is meditation.

.שֶׁאַתָּה מַדְלִיק וּמֵטִיב אֶת הַנֵּרוֹת – “… for you kindle and ‘make good’ the lamps.” 
Rashi adds one more detail. Aaron’s greatness lies not only in lighting the lamps but in making them good. The consciousness we seek is not something we create. It is already present. But when we intentionally bring awareness to awareness, when we become truly present to what is arising in this moment, an innate “goodness” reveals itself. This goodness has no opposite, because it that which perceives all opposites – the goodness of wakefulness, of the simple radiance of Being.

This is why inner freedom is not found in trying to control our circumstances; it is found in reclaiming our attention. To be free is to discover our sovereignty of awareness, to tend the “lamps” of perception, moment by moment. The flame is already there; as long as we are alive, we are already conscious. Our task is simply to raise it up.

צַ֚ו אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וִֽישַׁלְּחוּ֙ מִן־הַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה כׇּל־צָר֖וּעַ וְכׇל־זָ֑ב וְכֹ֖ל טָמֵ֥א לָנָֽפֶשׁ׃
​Command the Children of Israel to send out from the camp every tzarua (one with a particular skin affliction), every zav (one with a bodily discharge) and all who have become tamei (ritually unfit) from a (dead) person… 
- Bamidbar (Numbers) 5:2, Parshat Naso

It is well known that the Messianic Era, and especially the time of the Resurrection of the Dead, is the fulfillment and culmination of the creation of the world, for which purpose it was originally created. ​

And the Rabbis, of blessed memory, explained, “They looked eastward and heard the speech issuing forth: ‘I Am,’ etc., and so [turning] toward the four points of the compass, and upward and downward,” as is also explained in the Tikkunim that “There was no place from which Hashem did not speak to them….”  ​