Near the end of this week's Torah portion (Korach), God spelled out some of the privileges enjoyed by the Kohanim – the priestly caste made up of Aaron and his male direct descendants. God told Aaron that, in exchange for their work as the ritual leaders of the Temple, the Kohanim would receive some of the food that the Israelites brought as offerings to the Temple. 

Whenever the Israelites brought animal sacrifices as meal offerings, sin offerings or guilt offerings, the meat would go to the priests as their holy portion.  The Kohanim also would receive the oil, wine, grain and fruits that the Israelites brought to worship God.

God calls this arrangement a "Covenant of Salt" (Numbers 18:19). The phrase is unusual and it only appears in one other place in the Hebrew Bible (II Chronicles 13:5), where it describes the relationship between God and the descendants of King David. From the context, it is clear that a "Covenant of Salt" is one that lasts forever – it is unending.

But why? What is the quality of salt that is eternal?

According to the great medieval commentator Rashi, it is "because salt does not spoil," and that makes perfectly good sense. Since ancient times, people have noticed that, unlike oil or milk, for example, salt never goes bad. Salt that has been stored for decades will remain just as good as the day it was placed in its jar.

But there is also another possibility.

We think of salt primarily as something that gives flavor to food. Before the invention of refrigeration, though, salt was used mostly as a preservative. Meats and vegetable cured with salt last a long time because salt removes liquid from food and it inhibits the growth of microorganisms that cause spoilage. If the phrase "Covenant of Salt" refers to salt's quality as a preservative, there are some interesting implications.

Salt does allow foods to be kept for a very long time, but it does not leave them unchanged. Salted foods take on the flavor of salt. They lose most of their moisture. They may even shrivel up and change in size and texture. A pickle, for example, is noticeably different from a cucumber. Salt may not change over the decades, but food preserved with salt certainly does.

If the Kohanim experienced that kind of "Covenant of Salt," they were transformed by being God's appointed ritual leaders. Their relationship with God took something away from them, and it gave them some new qualities.

This is the observation of Rabbi Yisrael Yehoshua Trunk of Kutno. Writing in the mid-nineteenth century, he said that just as salt causes food to decrease in size, yet keeps it from spoiling for a long time, the same is true when one brings an offering. "What is given is lost, yet the donors establish their assets forever."

What does he mean? Put simply: When we give, we get. 

The Kohanim spent their lives serving God, and they certainly were aware that their service was not directly for their own benefit, but for the benefit of God. Their backs may have ached from heaving and slaughtering large animals, but, unlike the farmer or the shepherd, they understood that it was not done to improve their land or build up their flocks. The Kohanim had no land or flocks to call their own.

The reward the Kohanim received was not just in the form of the meat, fruit and grain they got from the sacrificial offerings of others, it was also the reward of serving something beyond themselves. The service itself was a reward and it changed them. It may have made them more grateful, more modest, and more devoted to God.

This is what Trunk of Kutno wants us to notice. The Covenant of Salt, and our service to God, does not exist so that we will feel self-satisfied as we are. If it does not change us in some way, we're not doing it right. A life devoted to Torah and to God is a life that is willing to be drained and refilled – to be transformed and challenged. When we give of ourselves, and give up something of ourselves, God helps us to become new people.

Korach has a bad reputation. But that reputation is all about the way he ended up, not the way he started.

I want to sing the song of Korach, that rebel of all rebels who opposed Moses and was punished with fire from God and swallowed up by the earth. I want to remember him with some fondness and remember that we all have a little Korach in us. It is a spirit that we need to develop and nurture lovingly. 

Korach appears in this week's Torah portion (which is named, appropriately, Korach) as a member of the tribe of Levi who complained about Moses' leadership. Accompanied by 250 prominent Israelites, Korach told Moses and Aaron, "You have gone too far, for all of the community — all of them! — are holy and Adonai is in their midst. So, why should you elevate yourselves over the community of Adonai!" (Numbers 16:3).

You have to admit, it's a powerful argument. It is even a democratic argument. 

Korach held that there was no good reason why Moses and Aaron alone should be in charge of the whole Israelite community — dictating the laws, deciding how they would be enforced, and appointing the heads of each tribe and clan. Korach held that it was wrong for Moses to assume the exclusive right to decree God's will. Korach declared that God was not the exclusive possession of any one person — no matter how wise or pious — and that each Israelite should be recognized as having his or her own sacred relationship with God.

Moses appeared to see the virtue of the argument, too. The first thing he did when he heard Korach's charge was to fall to the ground with his face down. In the culture of the Ancient Near East, that gesture had a clearly understood meaning. Falling on ones face was an acknowledgment of another person's superiority and a sign of humility. Moses understood that he was being chastised for a personal failing he had known about for a long time.

Before the Israelites had even received the Ten Commandments, Moses' father-in-law, Yitro, had warned Moses about his tendency to accumulate power to himself. He told Moses, "What is this thing that you are doing to the people? Why do you sit alone and make the people stand before you from morning to night? … What you are doing is no good. You are going to wear yourself out and this people along with you, for this responsibility is too heavy for you to bear alone" (Exodus 18:14,17-18). Moses was something of a control freak, to put it in modern parlance, and Korach was calling him on it. Moses needed to let go.

But before we psychoanalyze Moses' need to control things, let's look at Korach. What kind of personality might we attribute to a person who recognizes when an authority figure has gone too far? What could we say about someone who challenges power run amok? We could say that Korach himself was power hungry and he used Moses' personality flaw as a point of leverage to attack him and to attract other Israelites to follow him. That is possible. It is also possible that Korach had a strong sense of fair play and the courage to stand up against injustice — even against a very powerful foe. 

Who would you be rooting for in this narrative if it were happening today? Would you side with the man who says he uniquely speaks for God and has the unilateral authority to set laws over you? Or, would you root for the man who challenges the established order and declares that power should be shared by all?

Unlike James Dean's character in Hollywood's Rebel Without a Cause, Korach is a rebel with a cause. Korach does not fight aimlessly against a meaningless universe. Oh, no. Korach's cause is either to aggrandize himself, or it is to affirm the divinity within everyone. Either way, he believes in something. He believes that there is a need for order that is different from the current order.

That is a spirit to be nurtured. We need people who passionately want to change the world.

Jewish tradition teaches that the way the world is right now is not the way that God intends it to be. We are living in a broken world, either because of a cosmic catastrophe (as Lurianic Kabbalah teaches), because the link between heaven and earth was broken by the destruction of the Temple, or simply because error and sin are the nature of imperfect human beings. The world is in need of repair, tikkun olam, and human beings are needed to make it right. 

Yet, the story of Korach shows that having a passion for change is not enough. Korach may have started out with the right idea, but it got twisted at some point that made him more of a threat to the world than a solution to its problems. We can actually find that moment right in the story. 

Moses challenged Korach and his followers to an odd cosmic duel. Moses tested Korach's assumption that all the Israelites were equals before God. He told Korach, "You and all of your followers will be before Adonai tomorrow — you, they and Aaron. Each of you will take his firepan and place incense upon it and offer it before Adonai" (Numbers 16:16-17). It was as if Moses challenged Korach by saying, "If you think that you deserve the privilege of serving God as much as Aaron, the High Priest, then let's see what God thinks of your offering compared to his." 

Korach didn't notice the paradox of Moses' challenge. He did not see that being a leader should not be about having special privileges; it should be about having the humility to serve selflessly. Moses offered the bait and Korach swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Korach took the firepan that belonged to someone else and was burned when "fire went out from Adonai and ate up the 250 men offering the incense" (Numbers 16:35). The burning bodies of Korach and his followers, according to rabbinic interpretation, were also among those that were buried when "The ground gaped open beneath them and the earth's mouth opened and swallowed them" (Numbers 16:31-32). 

Korach had been at his best when he declared that his rebellion against Moses was not about himself. He had said, "All of the community — all of them! — are holy." Now, however, it was Moses' turn to recognize Korach's personality flaw and use it against him. If Korach had answered the challenge differently, the story would have ended differently. If he had said, "No, Moses. It is not for me to take up God's offering, or even for my 250 followers to do so. It is the right of every Israelite, for they are all members of a nation of priests," then he would have had a strong moral basis to continue his challenge. 

But he didn't. Korach's ego was too invested in everything he did. He may have been sincere about wanting to create a more democratic and just society, but Moses demonstrated that Korach also really wanted power for himself. The greatest distinction between the personality of Korach and the personality of Moses is that, when challenged, Moses threw himself to the ground in humble admission of his flaws. Korach, in contrast, lifted his ego up and claimed the right to assume the highest honor. 

Korach  saw something that was truly wrong — even Moses knew that it was wrong — and he wanted to do something about it. So, let us sing some praises for Korach! Let us recognize that there is a part of us also that does not just want to complain about injustice of the world, but actually wants to change it. We need more people like that … but only up to a point.

The spirit of defiance needs to be carefully tempered with humility. We need to develop the courage within ourselves to fight for what is right, but we need to kindle and build that fire with great awareness of the ways in which it can burn us. We know too well how easily righteousness can become self-righteous. We know that successful crusaders for justice, once they have become powerful themselves, can turn into leaders who are even more cruel than the tyrants they overthrew. 

That is why Korach met his fate of fire and earth. It was not because his ideas of justice and equality were wrong; it was because he could not get out of the way of his own ego. When he was offered the opportunity to step aside from power, he could not do it. As flawed a leader as Moses might have been — and we are all flawed — Korach would have been far worse. The fire for change that burned within him was also the fire of selfish greed. To make that clear, he had to be burned by the fire of heaven and he had to be humbled by being devoured into the mouth of the earth.

Other Posts on This Topic:
Vayikra: The Joy of Contrition
Va'eira: Playing God?
Beha'alotecha: Eldad and Medad

There’s no denying that it is a question that resonates with our own skepticism about authority. The only trouble for Korach is that, in the story, God, in effect, says, “I am what gives Moses and Aaron the right. So there!” And then God opens the earth to swallow up Korach and his followers.  

That’s the end of that argument.

But there is a kind of postscript at the end of the story of Korach’s rebellion. After the revolt ends, God instructs the leaders of the twelve tribes to each place their staffs—dead pieces of wood, really—into the sanctuary where God’s presence rests. One of the twelve staffs, the one that belongs to Moses’ brother Aaron, sprouts blossoms and even grows flowers and almonds as a sign that he has been divinely chosen to carry God’s authority. 

What Aaron says, goes. Why? Because God says so.

What does that have to say to us in our struggles with the idea of authority? God isn’t sending us any miracles today to tell us whom we have to obey. (It probably wouldn’t work, anyway. We still wouldn’t obey.) What should this story mean to us?

The reality is that we do need authority, much as we try to escape or avoid it. Society just could not function if each of us was completely free to decide how to behave. Taxes would never be collected, crimes would never be challenged, rules would never be adopted, and communities would never be formed if no one would submit to the authority of anything outside of themselves. As the philosopher Thomas Hobbes put it, life without authority would be, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

What I like about the story with the sprouting staff—especially after the wrathful story of the earth swallowing Korach whole—is that it affirms that authority equals life. Authority is symbolized by a dead piece of wood bearing fruit, reminding us that without submitting ourselves to the authority of something outside of ourselves, we’re all dead meat.

Reform Judaism is built on the idea of autonomy. Each Jew, in the thinking of Reform Judaism, has the autonomy to choose the forms of observance that are most meaningful to him or her. Reform Judaism says: “You find the symbolism of wearing a tallit on Shabbat to be meaningful and spiritually fulfilling? Great! Wear a tallit. If a tallit doesn’t do much for you, though, don’t wear it. It’s up to you.”  Each of us, according to this ideal, has the power to create our own Judaism.

But, wait just a second…If each of us can create “our own Judaism,” then what is Judaism? Is Judaism just what any Jew decides Judaism should be? What if someone wants Judaism to be Buddism? What if someone wants Judaism to just be eating bagels on Sunday morning? What if someone wants Judaism to be nothing? Can Judaism be nothing?

Reform Judaism does have limits. Judaism requires some authority to maintain its distinctiveness, its boundaries, its ethics and ideals. Reform responds to that need, not by knocking people over the head with a set of dead rules, but with the sweet taste of the almond and the fragrance of its flowers.  

Authority does not have to be punitive. Reform Judaism, in general, prefers to maintain its boundaries by accentuating that which is attractive and distinctive about Judaism. Reform Judaism emphasizes the beauty of Judaism’s language, rituals, and culture; the intellectual appeal of its ideals and values; the warmth and openness of its communities; and, most of all, its pathways to meaningful encounter with God.

The story of the sprouting staff challenges us, as Jews and as human beings, to ask what authority we place over us in our lives. Whom do we serve? Our own desires? Our fears? Our jobs? Money? Or, do we accept the authority of something higher—values, ethics, devotion to family and community, God? Are we ruled by the stick that threatens to chase us, or are we ruled by our own pursuit of the sweet scent of values that affirm life?

Other Posts on This Topic:
Korach: Walking into Trouble's Tent
Nitzavim-Vayeilech: Is There Such a Thing as a Religious Reform Jew?
Beha'alotecha: Eldad and Medad

In response to the rebellion, Moses first fell on his face to the ground in a stunning display of modesty. He did not argue with his accusers or act defensively. Instead, he put his trust in God and said, “Tomorrow, God will make known who belongs to God and who is holy.”

Later, Moses called for Datan and Abiram to appear before him. They refused to go to Moses, and their words were as far from modest as can be imagined. They said, "We will not come!  Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?”

Moses, it seems, wouldn't go to them, either. Nobody likes to go looking for trouble.

Who is the good guy and who is the bad guy in this story?  Most of the classical commentators are quick to paint a picture in black in white—Moses is the man of God and the rebels are selfish, narrow and power-hungry. But nothing in Torah is ever truly black and white. Moses may be a well intentioned leader and faithful to God, but that may not be enough.

Listen to what Rabbi Simchah Bunim of P’zhisha has to say. This hassidic master is one of the few commentators who is willing to find fault with Moses’ behavior. He asks, “Why did Moses have to send for Datan and Abiram and wait for them to attend to him?” Moses failed to bring peace to the Israelites during this, his greatest challenge, because he did not bother to go to them and try to appease them. Instead, he waited in his tent and sent to have them brought to him.

When I, like Moses, say, “If trouble wants me, let trouble come and get me itself,” in my mind I have reduced a human being to being nothing more than “trouble.”  I have neglected to see the human aspect of the person whose needs and desires—no matter how base I may consider them—are nothing but a source of bother to me.  

If I were to look at the human beings behind my “trouble”—I would begin to learn about who they are and what needs lie behind behaviors I, at first, labeled “selfish, narrow and power-hungry.”  I would see people in pain, I would see people who feel excluded, people who want the same things I want—love, acceptance and an ear to hear their plight.

When our communities overcome the human tendency to see those who think or behave differently as “trouble,” we begin to create peace. When we take the time to see the human being on the other side of the divide, it becomes much harder for us to see the other person as a villain.

The Torah teaches that Moses was the most modest man on the face of the earth.  Yet he, in all his modesty, was too busy burying his face in the earth—bemoaning his own sense of persecution—to walk to the source of his “trouble,” and begin to see, instead, a person.

May we, who have many points of view—we who are human beings who have each known pain, exclusion and isolation in our lives—come to truly see each other. Let us not wait for trouble to come to us, even when we believe ourselves to be in the right. Let us stand up, walk to trouble’s tent, and come to know the human face across from us.