This week’s parsha, Korah, begins with a rebellion. The titular Korah gathers 250 of his friends and they “rise up against” Moshe and Aaron, accusing them of “raising themselves above God’s congregation.” In response, Moshe falls on his face: he lowers himself to the ground, a gesture of humility. The rebels rise up against; Moshe does the opposite, bending to the earth.

Things do not go well for the rebels. In the morning they take up their fire pans, and God, incensed, threatens to destroy the whole community. Moshe and Aaron fall on their faces again, pleading with God for mercy. In the end, the earth opens and swallows up Korah and his band. God instructs Moshe to hammer the fire pans used by the rebels into plating for the altar. 

Three things stand out for me. First: our story begins with Korah and his followers falsely accusing Moshe and Aaron of seeing themselves as better than everyone else. How differently this story could have gone if Korah had come to Moshe and Aaron – not “assembling against” them, but in a spirit of curiosity, asking for a conversation instead of making assumptions.

Second: Moshe’s response is to fall on his face, the way we do on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur when we engage in prostration practice during the Great Aleinu. Every year when I let myself sink to the floor it feels like a giant spiritual exhale, like relaxing into the embrace of the earth. What a powerful choice: before he responds, Moshe “lets go and lets God.” 

And third: after the catastrophe, God tells Moshe to repurpose the fire pans and turn them into part of the altar. I see deep wisdom in this act of spiritual recycling. It reminds me of one of my favorite short poems by Yehuda Amichai z”l: 

Earlier this week I was reading updates from friends running to their bomb shelters – and thinking with anxiety and dread of those who don’t have bomb shelters and cannot hide from bombardment: in the Negev, in Gaza, in Tehran. 

“The people of Israel, Gaza, and Iran are human beings. No one deserves to live under constant rocket, missile, and drone fire.” These are words from Standing Together / עומדים ביחד / نقف معًا that landed deeply in my heart. “This is not a football game. This is real life, and entire worlds are being shattered day after day.” How much more can our hearts take? And what can we do?

Standing Together is raising funds to bring bomb shelters to underserved Bedouin communities in the south of Israel. NATAL provides trauma support in Israel. The PCRF feeds and supports children in Gaza, and the Sameer Project provides food, shelter, and medical aid. And United4Iran has a fund for survivors of the Iran-Israel war, and their work is well-respected.

Giving tzedakah is meaningful, and in Jewish tradition all are commanded to give tzedakah, even we who receive tzedakah ourselves. But I know what I can afford to donate barely touches the ocean of need. Primarily what I feel able to do is internal. I pray for peace. I extend support to the human beings I know, and I try to extend compassion to the ones I don’t know. 

I want to emulate the humility I see in Moshe. I know I don’t have the answers. I’m not in charge of the world, and that’s probably a good thing! I think falling on our faces is a great spiritual practice, especially in times of overwhelm – which is most of the time, these days. It’s a reminder that we’re not in charge. A practice of yielding, acknowledging what we don’t control.

And I want to honor God’s instruction to hammer the instruments of idolatry into tools to serve the sacred. Granted, Korah and his followers were making sacrifices to YHVH, so was it idolatry? I think it was – because I think they were putting themselves on a pedestal. I think their accusation that Moshe was elevating himself said more about them than about him.

I keep coming back to the Amichai poem about turning the swords not only into plowshares but into musical instruments, which I have on a poster on the wall in my office. As difficult as it might be to hammer an instrument of war into an instrument of music, I think it might be more difficult to hammer and reshape the human heart into one that truly beats for justice and for peace. 

And still I believe that it is possible to transform the heart, to transform ourselves. It takes a lot of work. Character work, spiritual work, cultivating middot (inner qualities) that help us live our values in the world. But here’s what I know as this week draws to its close: we can’t control the world in which we live. We can only control our own choices and who we become.

Later this summer, during the seven weeks before the Days of Awe, I’ll be co-teaching a class with my friend R. David Markus on seven core teachings / spiritual practices / qualities to cultivate. I think it’s the best response I have to a world that may feel broken and chaotic and unfair: yielding to what we can’t control, and embracing our agency to be the best we can be. 

This is the d'varling I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)