Parshas Chukas-Balak: The Wrong Rock
Last year, during Parshas Balak, I published a letter to camp staff about connection vs. discipline. It included a postscript—a memory from twenty years ago I’d almost left out entirely—about a staff member who slapped me across the face one night before lights out.
I was fourteen.
At the time, I assumed that writing it down had closed the chapter. The story had been told. The lesson had been extracted and shared. Whatever needed to be processed had been processed.
Apparently not.
Last week, I came across an article that unexpectedly brought the memory rushing back to the surface.
The article wasn’t about camp, and it certainly wasn’t about me. But it was written by someone whose last name I associated with that story. As I read it, I found myself thinking about something I’ve been wrestling with a lot over the past year and a half.
Much of my recent work has involved revisiting old stories about myself. Stories about who I am. Stories about where I struggle. Stories about things that happened years ago and the meanings I attached to them.
As I’ve slowly made room for a newer version of myself, I began realizing that I probably owe other people the same courtesy. If I don’t want to be defined forever by a snapshot taken twenty years ago, why was I so certain that anyone else should be?
So I decided to reach out.
Not because I wanted an apology, and not because I wanted to reopen an old wound. If anything, I wanted the opposite. I wanted to step in fully, ready to let go of the old narrative.
There was only one problem.
After more than two decades, I remembered the camp. I remembered the incident. I remembered the last name. I remembered enough about what he looked like.
What I did not remember was his first name.
And in my attempt to reach out to the person involved, I inadvertently emailed his brother instead.
A few days later, a response arrived in my inbox.
The email was thoughtful, gracious, and far more generous than I probably deserved. He engaged seriously with everything I had written, letting me know that he deeply respected the spirit of the letter—but that he was the wrong brother. He had never actually been on staff at that camp.
I felt the sudden, humbling sting of my own mistake.
I set out thinking I was going to offer forgiveness.
Instead, I found myself writing an apology.
Apparently, before I could let go of the story, I first had to let go of my ego around it.
When I realized what had happened, I couldn’t help but laugh. Because that mistake meets me right inside this week’s double Parsha.
Like Bilaam, I had a fixed picture.
Like Moshe, I spoke to the wrong rock.
I keep coming back to his exact words, as the language is good enough to share:
“Regardless of who was involved or what the circumstances were, the fact that it remained with you for two decades is itself significant. Moments that seem brief to one person can leave a lasting imprint on another. That is true for acts of kindness, and unfortunately it is also true for acts of anger. The older I get, the more aware I become of how much weight seemingly small interactions can carry.”
At the time, I assumed that writing it down had closed the chapter. The story had been told. The lesson had been extracted and shared. Whatever needed to be processed had been processed.
Apparently not.
Last week, I came across an article that unexpectedly brought the memory rushing back to the surface.
The article wasn’t about camp, and it certainly wasn’t about me. But it was written by someone whose last name I associated with that story. As I read it, I found myself thinking about something I’ve been wrestling with a lot over the past year and a half.
Much of my recent work has involved revisiting old stories about myself. Stories about who I am. Stories about where I struggle. Stories about things that happened years ago and the meanings I attached to them.
As I’ve slowly made room for a newer version of myself, I began realizing that I probably owe other people the same courtesy. If I don’t want to be defined forever by a snapshot taken twenty years ago, why was I so certain that anyone else should be?
So I decided to reach out.
Not because I wanted an apology, and not because I wanted to reopen an old wound. If anything, I wanted the opposite. I wanted to step in fully, ready to let go of the old narrative.
There was only one problem.
After more than two decades, I remembered the camp. I remembered the incident. I remembered the last name. I remembered enough about what he looked like.
What I did not remember was his first name.
And in my attempt to reach out to the person involved, I inadvertently emailed his brother instead.
A few days later, a response arrived in my inbox.
The email was thoughtful, gracious, and far more generous than I probably deserved. He engaged seriously with everything I had written, letting me know that he deeply respected the spirit of the letter—but that he was the wrong brother. He had never actually been on staff at that camp.
I felt the sudden, humbling sting of my own mistake.
I set out thinking I was going to offer forgiveness.
Instead, I found myself writing an apology.
Apparently, before I could let go of the story, I first had to let go of my ego around it.
When I realized what had happened, I couldn’t help but laugh. Because that mistake meets me right inside this week’s double Parsha.
Parshas Chukas is remembered for Moshe striking the rock instead of speaking to it as Hashem commanded. But this year I found myself drawn to a detail from Rashi.
דִּבְּרוּ אֶל סֶלַע אַחֵר וְלֹא הוֹצִיא
“They spoke to a different rock, and it did not produce water.”
(Bamidbar 20:11)
According to the Midrash, after Miriam’s death the well became hidden among the surrounding rocks. Moshe and Aharon could no longer distinguish which rock Hashem intended. The people challenged them: “What difference does it make? Speak to this one.”
So they did.
Nothing happened.
What struck me is that the story doesn’t begin with rebellion. It begins with confusion.
The turning point came afterward.
Faced with silence, mounting frustration, and the pressure of the crowd, Moshe stopped listening to what reality was telling him and instead tried to force the situation to respond.
He struck the rock.
And for that, he lost the opportunity to enter the Land.
That blind spot brings me straight into Parshas Balak.
Bilaam wasn’t completely wrong. Balak really did hire him. The Jewish people really are there. He really is on a mission.
But every step along the way, reality tells him there’s more to the story than he realizes. His donkey sees what he cannot. The angel sees what he cannot.
Instead of letting those interruptions reshape his understanding, he keeps trying to force his original narrative onto reality.
Like Bilaam, I had a fixed picture.
Like Moshe, I spoke to the wrong rock.
The ultimate irony is that I reached out to let go of a twenty-year-old story.
Instead, reality interrupted me.
Had I reached the correct person immediately, I probably would have had a predictable conversation about a twenty-year-old incident. Instead, because of a mistaken identity, I was blessed to encounter someone who did the exact opposite of striking.
He received a confusing email about an event from twenty years ago that wasn’t even meant for him. Instead of reacting with defensiveness, he responded with reflection, humility, and grace.
Eventually, the story found its way to the correct person as well, and that conversation brought its own measure of closure. But by then, the lesson had already arrived.
The wrong brother led to the right conversation.
The wrong rock led to the right lesson.
Sometimes what we call a mistake is actually Hashgocha Protis leading us into exactly the conversation we needed to have.
I keep coming back to his exact words, as the language is good enough to share:
“Regardless of who was involved or what the circumstances were, the fact that it remained with you for two decades is itself significant. Moments that seem brief to one person can leave a lasting imprint on another. That is true for acts of kindness, and unfortunately it is also true for acts of anger. The older I get, the more aware I become of how much weight seemingly small interactions can carry.”
For twenty years, I remembered a moment.
This week, I encountered a response.
One was an act of anger.
The other became an act of grace.
Chukas and Balak remind me that we don’t always get to choose the interruptions that enter our lives.
But we do get to choose what happens next.
Good Shabbos,
Berke