Think.
With an open mind

You can watch a recording of this sermon on our YouTube channel.

אֲנִי חֹלֶמֶת שֶׁפִּי מָלֵא כּוֹכָבִים,
וְכָל מִלָּה שֶׁאֲנִי אוֹמֶרֶת הִיא לִהְיוֹת זֶרַח־פְּרַח

 

I dream I have a mouth full of stars,
and every word I speak is the birth of a flower.

There are moments in Torah when the expected voices fall silent—and the unexpected ones begin to sing.

This week, in Parashat Balak, the most luminous words spoken about the Israelites do not come from Moses, or Aaron, or Miriam. They come from Bilaam—a prophet from outside our story, hired to curse, yet compelled to bless. And in his blessing, we hear a kind of astonishment:

Mah tovu ohalekha Yaakov, mishkenotekha Yisrael
How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.

It’s not just a poetic turn. It’s a revelation: That someone who was never part of the covenant can bear witness to its beauty. That holiness can be named by a stranger, and blessing can emerge from a reluctant mouth.

This, too, is the dream of Rivka Miriam’s poem, with which I begun:

I dream I have a mouth full of stars,
and every word I speak is the birth of a flower.

Rivka Miriam dreams that stars might dwell in every mouth, and that each word—no matter who speaks it—might birth something radiant, something alive.

Parashat Balak offers us the gift of being able to reflect on what it means to bless and to be a blessing. There are, of course, many different aspects of the story that we could explore, but today, especially as we live in times of heightened anxiety about our place within the non-Jewish world and the feelings that others have for us, I want to just take a few moments to reflect on the special blessing of being a community focused not solely on our Jewish members but also deeply committed to nurturing the sacred relationship with the members of our community who are not Jewish, but who dwell with us, bless with us, build with us. What does it mean for our community to see them—not as guests, but as co-dreamers in our tents of meeting?

At The Ark—as in many synagogues across the Liberal Jewish world—our tents are filled with people whose Jewishness takes many forms, and with people who are not Jewish, but whose presence is nothing short of sacred.

Non-Jewish partners who raise Jewish children. Parents who drop of kids at cheder, show up to Shabbat and festivals, who sit beside us in grief and celebration. Partners who help keep our community safe by providing security at the door. Friends who come not out of obligation, but out of love.

Too often, Jewish tradition has struggled to find language for such belonging. But Bilaam gives us a liturgical model: to look with reverence at a people not our own, and to bless what we see. To declare the beauty of shared dwelling.

It fills me with quiet pride to know that there are many members of our community who joined us through marriage—who built Jewish homes, shared in Jewish rituals—not because they were born into this tradition, but because they chose to weave their lives into ours.

And even after loss—after the Jewish partner has died—many of them have remained. They continue to call this community home. They travel with us on synagogue trips, study with us, show up on Shabbat mornings with the same gentle commitment they always have. They grieve with us. They celebrate with us. And they continue to receive the loving care of our care team—because of course they do. Because they are not guests, not “plus-ones,” but beloved dwellers in our tent.

When Bilaam looked upon the Israelites encamped below, he did not see walls or pedigrees. He saw tents—openings, dwellings, lives in motion. He saw a people arranged not for exclusion but for presence. And he blessed them not for their sameness, but for the way they lived together in sacred pattern:

“Like palm groves that stretch out, like gardens beside a river…” (Numbers 24:6)

What Bilaam witnessed—and what we strive still to embody—is not a fortress people, but a planted people. Rooted. Reaching. Intertwined.

His vision, though it came from outside, became part of our prayerbook—recited at the opening of our morning services. It reminds us that sometimes we need to hear the truth of who we are reflected back to us. And sometimes the greatest blessings are those we didn’t expect to receive—just as sometimes the most steadfast members of our community are those we did not expect to remain.

So this Shabbat, as we hear Bilaam’s words echo across the ages—“How good are your tents…”— let us hear them not only as a poetic curiosity, but as a mirror held up to the kind of community we are.

A community where blessing flows in unexpected directions. Where presence matters more than pedigree. Where love, loss, and loyalty are honoured across every threshold.

And in that spirit, I offer this blessing—drawn from poetry, from Torah, and from the lives we share:

Blessed are You, Source of all blessing,
who teaches us to listen to voices we did not expect—
to strangers, lovers, companions,
whose tongues might not bear Torah, but speak truth.

We remember Bilaam,
whose mouth became a gate for glory,
whose eyes, once narrowed by fear,
were opened to beauty.

And we remember that our tents
are never only our own.
They are shaped by all who dwell within them.

We give thanks for every soul
who walks beside us in sacred partnership—
who teaches us, blesses us,
loves our people with open hands.

May our words, like stars in the mouth,
light paths we cannot yet see.
And may every blessing
be born like a flower
from lips we dared not expect
to speak holiness into our midst.

Amen.