Parashat Balak: Friday, June 26, 2026 (Session 1, Week 2)

Parashat Balak

Shabbat shalom, Camp Interlaken community.

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Balak, gives us one of the most unexpected moments in the Torah.

A man named Balaam, known as a powerful prophet, is hired by King Balak to curse the Israelites. Balaam sets out on his journey, riding his donkey, believing that he understands where he is going and what he is meant to do.

But along the way, an angel stands in the road, blocking his path.

Balaam does not see the angel.

His donkey does.

Three times, the donkey tries to turn away from danger. Three times, Balaam becomes frustrated, unable to understand why his path is being interrupted. Finally, the donkey speaks, and only then are Balaam’s eyes opened. Only then does he see what had been in front of him all along.

It is a powerful moment.

Balaam is the prophet. He is the one who is supposed to see clearly. He is the one with status, authority, and spiritual insight. And yet, in this story, the one who sees the truth first is the one he had dismissed.

The Torah is teaching us something profound: sometimes the voice we are quickest to ignore is the voice we most need to hear.

That lesson feels especially meaningful at camp.

Camp is a place filled with voices. Songs in the chadar ochel. Laughter from the lake. Cheering on the fields. Quiet conversations on cabin porches. Prayers shared under the trees. The joyful noise of a community coming alive.

But some of the most important voices at camp are not always the loudest.

Sometimes they are the camper who is standing just outside the circle, hoping someone will notice.

Sometimes they are the child who says, “I don’t know where to go,” and is really asking, “Do I belong here?”

Sometimes they are the staff member who gently notices that something is not quite right.

Sometimes they are the new camper who sees our community with fresh eyes.

Sometimes they are the person who slows us down, not because they are trying to be difficult, but because they are trying to feel safe.

In Balaam’s story, the danger was not only that he could not see the angel. The deeper danger was that he could not imagine that someone else saw something he did not.

He was so focused on his destination that he stopped noticing what was happening along the way.

That can happen to all of us.

We can become so focused on the schedule that we miss the camper who needs an extra moment.

So focused on the activity that we miss the child who feels unsure.

So focused on our own assumptions that we miss the wisdom in someone else’s experience.

So focused on what we think we know that we forget to ask, “What am I not seeing?”

One of the great gifts of Jewish tradition is that it asks us, again and again, to open our eyes. To notice the stranger. To care for the vulnerable. To listen for the quiet voice. To recognize holiness not only in grand moments, but in small acts of attention, humility, and care.

And one of the great gifts of camp is that it gives our children a place to practice exactly that.

At Camp Interlaken, our campers learn that community is built not only through friendship, ruach, and shared joy, but through noticing one another. They learn that inclusion is not just a value we talk about; it is a choice we make in real time. They learn that a cabin becomes a home when each person is seen, heard, and valued.

A child who feels left out can be brought back into the circle.

A camper who is nervous can be met with patience.

A new friendship can begin because someone made room at the table.

A hard moment can become a sacred one when someone says, “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t see that before.”

Those words matter.

“I didn’t see that before.”

They are words of humility. They are words of growth. They are words that help build trust. They remind us that none of us sees everything on our own. We need one another to help us see more fully.

The story of Balaam does not end with a curse. Though he was hired to curse the Israelites, his words become blessings. One of those blessings is so beautiful that it became part of our daily liturgy:

Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael.

“How good are your tents, Jacob, your dwelling places, Israel.”

Balaam arrives prepared to curse. But when his eyes are opened, he is moved to bless.

That transformation is at the heart of this parashah, and it is also at the heart of camp.

At camp, we learn to see differently.

We learn that the child who seems difficult may be asking for connection.

We learn that the person on the edge of the group may be waiting for an invitation.

We learn that someone’s silence may be carrying a story.

We learn that first impressions are rarely the whole truth.

We learn that when we truly see one another, we create the possibility of blessing.

This is what we hope for our campers. Not only that they have fun, though we hope deeply that they do. Not only that they try new activities, build friendships, and sing loudly at Shabbat, though we hope for all of that too.

We hope they learn to become people who notice.

People who listen.

People who include.

People who can pause long enough to ask, “What might I not be seeing?”

People who understand that every person in our community has something to teach.

This Shabbat, Parashat Balak invites us to open our eyes and soften our hearts.

To listen for the voices we might otherwise miss.

To take seriously the person who sees what we do not.

To turn moments of frustration into moments of understanding.

And to help transform our tents, our cabins, our homes, and our community into places of blessing.

May we have the humility to know that we do not see everything.

May we have the courage to listen when someone helps us see more clearly.

May we have the compassion to notice those waiting to be noticed.

And may our community always be a place where every child, every staff member, and every family can say:

Mah tovu.

How good it is to be here.

Shabbat shalom.