Talking animals, curses that come out backwards, a wicked king spluttering with frustration -- it's a goofy story. But it's a goofy story wrapped around a serious message: that when a prophet is in-tune with God, the words he utters will inevitably be sweet. Well, sweet from our perspective; we're Israel, after all. I don't imagine the Moabites were especially pleased by what Balaam had to say. Therein lies the challenge today's post-triumphalistic or universalistic readers may find in this parsha: why does Balaam's blessing have to be paralleled with curses for the other guys?

There's a strong particularism to this story. Those whom God favors are showered with blessings, even when the speakers intend to speak otherwise; those whom God doesn't favor are ultimately doomed. That reading can be problematic for those of us on whom the mantle of chosenness doesn't rest comfortably. The stark binarism of the good guy / bad guy paradigm may seem outdated, no longer useful. How can that tension be resolved?

In his commentary on the writings of the Sfat Emet, Rabbi Arthur Green sees in this passage a "glimmer of another view, one that will be essential to any contemporary reappropriation of Jewish spirituality." Every nation -- "religious community," he amends -- has its own prophet, whose powers ultimately derive from the same one God. "The quality and clarity of each prophet's message depend on the community he or she represents and the degree to which that community is willing to say, 'Let us do and listen,' as Moses' people was." In other words: every community has its prophets, and all of them exist in relationship to the same Source. The efficacy of a prophet depends on how ready her community is to truly and actively listen.

Rabbi Green's interpretation neatly elides the sense of nationalism that might be troubling to the modern ear and eye. Prophets don't only exist in the context of Israel -- and what makes the people Israel remarkable is not some inherent superiority, but our willingness to stand in readiness to receive the prophetic message.

Prophecy, writes the Sfat Emet (in Green's translation), "brings speech forth from potential to real." But in order for a prophet to have significance, there also needs to be an audience -- ideally, a receptive one. A prophet speaking in a vacuum isn't fulfilling his mission; that tree falling in the proverbial forest doesn't make a discernible sound until there are ears to hear. Balaam's prophecy was meaningful because it reached somebody's ears. In that sense, prophecy is inevitably a relational activity -- the prophet relates both to God and to the person or people who hear the prophetic words.

And sometimes humor is the best way to get a serious point across. Parashat Balak is, by and large, a romp (aside from the challenging little story of Pinchas that seems tacked-on to the end; more about that next week.) It's comedic, but the words that come out when Balaam opens his mouth elevate the story to a different level. His prophetic speech cuts through the humor of the story, and reminds us how powerful our words can be if our speech is fired by connection with God.