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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. At the beginning of our parshah, Hashem responds to Pinhas’ violent act with a seemingly ironic instruction to Moses: “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.

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? ...

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 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?... Read the full teaching on the blog HERE

"Send for yourself people to spy out the land…" (Numbers 13:2) 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) 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?... Read the full teaching here