This past week’s Torah portion, Balak, finds the Israelites continuing their wilderness journey, circuitously making their way to the Promised Land. (And doesn’t it mirror life’s wanderings, finding periods in our lives as something of a wilderness as we make our way towards what we imagine to be a land of milk and honey?)
The journeys lead to insights for how we approach life today. The portion is named for Balak, King of Moab, a kingdom in present day Jordan, through which the Israelites marched on their journey to enter the Promised Land from the east. Balak had seen the Israelites prevail in battle over the neighboring Amorites, when the Amorites refused safe passage to the Israelites to travel through their land.
In response, Balak hires Balaam, a nearby prophet, to level a curse against the Israelites, in order to weaken them and make them vulnerable to attack. Balaam, initially resisting the request, ultimately relents with God’s permission, while proclaiming to Balak that he can “utter only the word God puts into my mouth” (Numbers 22:38).
Sure enough, when Balaam perched himself over the Israelites, ready to let whatever was to come out of his mouth come forth, chanted the following, now famous, verse: mah tovu ohalechah Ya’akov, mishkenotechah Yisrael “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24:5).
These words now open most morning services when entering a synagogue, as part of the following prayer: “How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel! I, by Your great love, enter Your house and bow down reverently before Your holy shrine. Adonai, I love Your house of dwelling, the abode of Your glory. I will humbly bow down low before Adonai, my Maker. I offer my prayer to You, Adonai, at this time of favor, God in Your great mercy: answer me with Your saving truth. “
Commentators take note of the traditional prayer service beginning both with an emphasis on place and an emphasis on “I”—first person singular. So much of Jewish prayer emphasizes the communal prayer experience, they observe; Judaism requires a community of ten (a minyan) for many traditional prayers, for example. Why begin so strikingly with place and with first person singular?
One insight we derived from our discussion is that before we can be truly present to the sacredness of a moment—be it a moment of prayer, a moment of learning, a moment of reflection, a moment of dialogue or conversation—we need to be in touch with where we are and what is happening for us. As Rabbi Elliot Dorff put it, alluding to Martin Buber’s famous work I and Thou, “we must recognize our own unique ‘I’ before entering into a relationship with a ‘Thou’—whether with God or with other human beings.”
Sometimes we gain the impression in Judaism that solitary prayer is not a part of our tradition. That is not true. It is, even when we first experience that solitariness within community. Before we can engage with the community, or even with the Divine, we are invited to notice where we are and what is happening for us—not because there are any prerequisites for where should be or how we should feel at any given moment; there aren’t. The suggestion is simply that we should be in touch with where we are and how we feel before we proceed with whatever sacred act—be it a prayer or a conversation—so that that space and those feelings and experiences do not intrude or hold us back as we proceed.
By putting whatever it is that is affecting us on the table, consciously in our minds and souls, as we proceed, we are better able to account for them in our prayer, dialogue, conversation, work, or practice. If I am, for example, hot, cold, uncomfortable, tired, anxious, hungry, fearful, happy… all of these are relevant experiences to be in touch with as we feel ourselves being present to God’s—or another human being’s—presence. We make a little space for the “I” so that we can be fully present to the “Thou.”
