Parshas Korach: Playing With Fire
This past weekend, I attended an Ahdama Brotherhood retreat. The premise of the weekend was simple, though far from easy: to slow down long enough to remember who you are underneath all the stories, reactions, and patterns you’ve accumulated over the years.
Over the last year and a half, I’ve spent a lot of time doing that kind of work—paying attention to the things that trigger me, asking uncomfortable questions, and sitting in the places where I still have room to grow.
Most of that work has happened alone or 1 on 1. That’s not a bad thing, as some internal sorting can only be done in isolation, but there was something profoundly different about this weekend.
Sitting in that circle, I found myself hearing pieces of my own story in places I didn’t expect. It wasn't because everyone else’s life looked like mine; in many cases, our struggles and histories weren't even close. Yet, I kept recognizing parts of myself.
I’d watch a reaction I understood immediately, or a pattern I’d seen in my own mirror. Someone would describe an experience that had nothing to do with my day-to-day reality, and it would suddenly give me language for something I’d been trying to process for months.
I didn’t come home with answers, but I came home with language. And language has a funny way of changing what we’re able to see, because once you can finally name a thing, you can begin to work with it.
As I sat in the airport waiting for my flight home, replaying the weekend in my mind, I found myself thinking about Parshas Korach. But I wasn't thinking about Korach himself, or the dramatic imagery of the earth opening up. I was thinking about the firepans.
There is a striking moment in the text where two hundred and fifty men stand before Hashem, each carrying a copper firepan.
Something about that image felt different to me this year, maybe because I’ve been paying closer attention to my own internal fires.
For most of my life, I assumed my moments of intense reaction were entirely about whatever was happening right in front of me—someone said something, did something or annoyed me. But more and more, I’ve discovered that the immediate trigger is rarely the whole story.
A while back, I found myself extra annoyed because someone didn’t flush a toilet. I didn’t even know who it was, but I started judging them. “Who does that?”
It wasn’t exactly the profound spiritual insight I usually hope for, but when I actually sat with the irritation, it started pointing somewhere unexpected. The frustration wasn’t really about him; it pointed me toward how I interact with my own boys.
Sometimes when they forget to flush, I just do it myself because it’s quicker and easier than stopping to remind them. Then, I find myself frustrated when they don’t learn a lesson I never actually took the time to properly impart.
The trigger pointed one direction, but the real lesson pointed another.
I’ve had enough experiences like that now to know that the first story we tell ourselves is rarely the true one. If we slow down long enough, the things that trigger us almost always reveal a deeper layer underneath—an old wound, a fear, a blind spot, or a place where we still need to mature.
That is what stayed with me at the airport gate. What exactly is a firepan? It isn’t the fire itself; it’s the vessel carrying it.
We all walk around carrying firepans of our own, forged out of old hurts, defensive assumptions, fears, longings, and unanswered questions.
We carry them through life until something or someone accidental brushes against them, and suddenly, we feel the flash of heat.
What fascinates me most about the parsha is that after the rebellion ends and the people are swallowed up, these firepans are not discarded. They aren't treated as radioactive spiritual waste.
Instead, Hashem commands that they be gathered up and hammered into a covering for the Mizbeach.
The very vessels that carried the fire of a destructive rebellion become part of the place where people come to draw close to Him.
I love that image because it completely upends the way I used to think about growth. For a long time, I thought growing up meant getting rid of the things that bothered me—erasing the wounds, eliminating the fears, and destroying the triggers.
Now, I see the Torah using language that feels much closer to what we call integration. The firepans don’t disappear; they get hammered out and built into the altar. The thing that once felt like a burden or a wound becomes the very space where transformation happens. The fire doesn’t vanish; it gets channeled into something holy.
Right after the story of the firepans, the Torah gives us the sign of Aharon’s staff—a dead piece of wood placed in the Mishkan overnight that, by morning, has miraculously produced buds, blossoms, and ripe almonds.
It didn't just flash with temporary flowers; it yielded something lasting, tangible, and nourishing.
The more I think about it, the more that feels like the real destination. It’s not about arriving at some flawless, idealized version of myself where nothing ever triggers me again, or reaching a final destination where the internal work is finished.
It’s just about becoming a little more aware. It's noticing the heat a little sooner, understanding the root a little deeper, and making one small, conscious change after another.
Until eventually, with enough patience and enough hammering, the things in our lives that used to show up only as fire finally begin to show up as fruit—capable of nourishing not only ourselves, but the people around us as well.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
Over the last year and a half, I’ve spent a lot of time doing that kind of work—paying attention to the things that trigger me, asking uncomfortable questions, and sitting in the places where I still have room to grow.
Most of that work has happened alone or 1 on 1. That’s not a bad thing, as some internal sorting can only be done in isolation, but there was something profoundly different about this weekend.
Sitting in that circle, I found myself hearing pieces of my own story in places I didn’t expect. It wasn't because everyone else’s life looked like mine; in many cases, our struggles and histories weren't even close. Yet, I kept recognizing parts of myself.
I’d watch a reaction I understood immediately, or a pattern I’d seen in my own mirror. Someone would describe an experience that had nothing to do with my day-to-day reality, and it would suddenly give me language for something I’d been trying to process for months.
I didn’t come home with answers, but I came home with language. And language has a funny way of changing what we’re able to see, because once you can finally name a thing, you can begin to work with it.
As I sat in the airport waiting for my flight home, replaying the weekend in my mind, I found myself thinking about Parshas Korach. But I wasn't thinking about Korach himself, or the dramatic imagery of the earth opening up. I was thinking about the firepans.
There is a striking moment in the text where two hundred and fifty men stand before Hashem, each carrying a copper firepan.
Something about that image felt different to me this year, maybe because I’ve been paying closer attention to my own internal fires.
For most of my life, I assumed my moments of intense reaction were entirely about whatever was happening right in front of me—someone said something, did something or annoyed me. But more and more, I’ve discovered that the immediate trigger is rarely the whole story.
A while back, I found myself extra annoyed because someone didn’t flush a toilet. I didn’t even know who it was, but I started judging them. “Who does that?”
It wasn’t exactly the profound spiritual insight I usually hope for, but when I actually sat with the irritation, it started pointing somewhere unexpected. The frustration wasn’t really about him; it pointed me toward how I interact with my own boys.
Sometimes when they forget to flush, I just do it myself because it’s quicker and easier than stopping to remind them. Then, I find myself frustrated when they don’t learn a lesson I never actually took the time to properly impart.
The trigger pointed one direction, but the real lesson pointed another.
I’ve had enough experiences like that now to know that the first story we tell ourselves is rarely the true one. If we slow down long enough, the things that trigger us almost always reveal a deeper layer underneath—an old wound, a fear, a blind spot, or a place where we still need to mature.
That is what stayed with me at the airport gate. What exactly is a firepan? It isn’t the fire itself; it’s the vessel carrying it.
We all walk around carrying firepans of our own, forged out of old hurts, defensive assumptions, fears, longings, and unanswered questions.
We carry them through life until something or someone accidental brushes against them, and suddenly, we feel the flash of heat.
What fascinates me most about the parsha is that after the rebellion ends and the people are swallowed up, these firepans are not discarded. They aren't treated as radioactive spiritual waste.
Instead, Hashem commands that they be gathered up and hammered into a covering for the Mizbeach.
The very vessels that carried the fire of a destructive rebellion become part of the place where people come to draw close to Him.
I love that image because it completely upends the way I used to think about growth. For a long time, I thought growing up meant getting rid of the things that bothered me—erasing the wounds, eliminating the fears, and destroying the triggers.
Now, I see the Torah using language that feels much closer to what we call integration. The firepans don’t disappear; they get hammered out and built into the altar. The thing that once felt like a burden or a wound becomes the very space where transformation happens. The fire doesn’t vanish; it gets channeled into something holy.
Right after the story of the firepans, the Torah gives us the sign of Aharon’s staff—a dead piece of wood placed in the Mishkan overnight that, by morning, has miraculously produced buds, blossoms, and ripe almonds.
It didn't just flash with temporary flowers; it yielded something lasting, tangible, and nourishing.
The more I think about it, the more that feels like the real destination. It’s not about arriving at some flawless, idealized version of myself where nothing ever triggers me again, or reaching a final destination where the internal work is finished.
It’s just about becoming a little more aware. It's noticing the heat a little sooner, understanding the root a little deeper, and making one small, conscious change after another.
Until eventually, with enough patience and enough hammering, the things in our lives that used to show up only as fire finally begin to show up as fruit—capable of nourishing not only ourselves, but the people around us as well.
Good Shabbos,
Berke