Neither of these approaches is entirely satisfying. I tend to be sympathetic to the perspective that Korah’s challenge doesn’t merit being swallowed alive. His desire for a fully egalitarian society is, if perhaps impractical, certainly understandable. And the response to his group seems to prove his point: surely a just society ought to be open to hearing challenges and taking them seriously, rather than smiting those who are troubled by the existing power structure. Yet how can we fully take Korah’s side if his devastating punishment comes from God?

I want to suggest that instead of siding with Korah and defending the actions of his group, or siding with God and coming up with a rationale for Korah’s harsh punishment, a more satisfying response to this story’s challenge might come from the rabbis, who are themselves conflicted inheritors of the tradition.

The rabbis rewrite Korah’s story in a number of different ways, some more sympathetic than others. In one version presented in Bemidbar Rabbah, Korah’s challenge is not about the general leadership structure but rather relates to the particulars of certain mitzvot. Korah asks Moses whether a garment entirely made out of tekhelet (the sky blue dye commanded for biblical tzitzit) would be exempt from tzitzit, and when told that it would not be, objects, “A tallit that is entirely made of tekhelet doesn’t exempt itself, but four threads [of tzitzit] exempt it?!” He then asks whether a house full of Torah scrolls would be exempt from needing a mezuzah on its doorposts, and when again told that it would not be, objects, “The two hundred and seventy-five chapters of the Torah don’t exempt the house, but the one chapter that is in the mezuzah exempts it?!” He then proceeds to accuse Moses of making the whole thing up.

Korah’s questions in this version of the story pose a serious challenge to the seeming arbitrariness of the halakhic system, and for this reason they remind me of the way the rabbis present another famous questioner who happens to be one of their own: a sage named Rabbi Yirmiyah. Like the rabbinic version of Korah, Rabbi Yirmiyah likes to ask questions about why halakha is the way it is, and similarly like Korah, asks about hypothetical cases to demonstrate the arbitrariness of the law. Most famously, he asks about the legal ruling for a lost chick who is found with one foot within fifty cubits of its coop, in which case it would need to be returned to its owner, and one foot outside fifty cubits, in which case it would belong to its finder—and he asks several other such questions throughout the Talmud. Of course, the rabbis also like to use hypothetical cases to test halakhic principles, so Rabbi Yirmiyah’s questions are not so far outside the pale. Nonetheless, he becomes a kind of scapegoat within the tradition for the rabbis’ ambivalence toward their own intellectual project. As punishment, he is not swallowed up into the earth, but he is famously kicked out of the rabbinic study hall (BT Bava Batra 23b), which for a rabbi in late antiquity is basically just as awful.

A lesser-known fact about Rabbi Yirmiyah, however, is that after being kicked out of the study hall, he later returns to the intellectual community (BT Bava Batra 165b). His colleagues realize that they still need his wisdom, and they send him some questions, which he answers with a combination of sagacity and deep humility. Upon realizing that he is not the threat they at first perceived him to be, his colleagues welcome him back, and though the text does not say so explicitly, I imagine that he is thrilled and relieved to return.

Parshat Korah presents the story of a question perceived as a communal threat that is met with complete suppression, one that we may never fully make sense of. But the rabbinic tradition offers us two helpful resources: first, a tradition in which Korah is seen as someone whose questions may be deeply challenging but nonetheless stem from real intellectual engagement; and second, through the R. Yirmiyah narratives, an alternative tale of what a community can do, at least at a minimum, to take questioners seriously, even if they at first raised some hackles. Each of us knows what it is like to hear a challenge to our commitments that makes us deeply uncomfortable. I hope we can learn from the stories the rabbinic tradition offers us about considering new models for what curiosity, and even repair, can look like.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Korah seems to have scripture on his side. According to the Torah, God doesn’t dwell in Moses’s tent, or in Aaron’s; the deity dwells at the center of the camp that belongs to the whole nation. The books of Exodus and Numbers take pains to provide us with a detailed map of the Israelite camp, and the Tabernacle (Mishkan) is at its midpoint. Within that Tabernacle, these books make clear, is the very presence of God. Further, what Korah says about the nation Israel is quite reminiscent of verses throughout the Torah. God sanctifies the nation Israel in , not just Moses. We learn in  that the whole nation—not just Moses’s family—will be God’s special treasure, a holy kingdom. Verses that speak of the Israelite nation’s holiness occur throughout the Torah: ; Leviticus 11:44–45, 19:2, 20:7–8; ; and :2, and 28:9. Korah seems to have not only Thomas Jefferson and Woodie Guthrie on his side in his proposal for letting the common man share some power; he seems to have the Torah on his side, too. No wonder he garnered significant support, His program was popular, and it seemed kosher.

But the Torah is quite clear about who did not side with Korah: God. After hearing Korah’s complaint, Moses proposes a test: Korah and his followers should come to the Tabernacle with an incense-filled fire pan of the sort used in sacrificial worship; Aaron will do the same. God’s reaction, Moses implies, will show who’s right. When, on the following day, the test takes place, a fire bursts forth from the Holy of Holies where God dwells, and kills Korah and his followers. Some of Korah’s followers avoid being killed by the fire—but only because the earth opens up and swallows them, an event that tends to reinforce the basic message God is sending about Korah’s proposal.

The Torah makes Korah into a symbol of exactly the wrong sort of belief, even though his proposals seem to hew fairly closely to a large number of verses from elsewhere in the Torah. What is so wrong with what he says?

The answer becomes clear when we read more closely the verses about Israel’s holiness elsewhere in the Torah. These verses never simply tell us, as Korah does, that all Israelites are inherently holy. Rather, they command Israelites to become holy by observing the mitzvot that the Torah commands. Compare Korah’s statement quoted above with the words God speaks just before God gives the Torah at Sinai ():

So now–
if you all truly obey Me
and adhere to My covenant,
you will be My personal treasure from among all nations.
Indeed, all the world is Mine,
but you will become My kingdom of priests,
My holy people.

Korah’s statement, “The whole congregation, all of them, are holy,” seems on the surface to resemble these verses, but it leaves out the crucial word that appears at the very beginning of God’s statement: if. The Israelites become holy only when they truly obey God and adhere to the Covenant. The same is true of the other verses about Israel’s holiness I cited earlier. To take just a few examples:

• In , God says, “You should be holy, for I, Hashem your God, am holy. Every person should respect his mother and father. Observe My Sabbaths—I am Hashem your God. Never turn to any false gods, and make yourselves no idols.”
• In , God commands the Israelites to wear tzitziyot, fringes on their garments, so that, when they see the tzitziyot, they will remember God’s commands. “Then,” God says, “you will carry out all My commands, and you will be holy to your God.”
• In Deuteronomy 13:9 to 14:2, Moses tells the Israelites, “If you obey Hashem your God by carrying out all His commandments that I command you today and by doing what is right in the sight of the Hashem your God, you will be children of Hashem your God. Do not gash yourselves or make a bald spot above your forehead because of the dead [as a sign of mourning]! For you are a holy people belonging to Hashem your God! Hashem your God chose you from among all the nations on earth to be His personal treasure. Do not eat anything that is improper!” (The laws of kashrut follow.)      

All these passages mention Israel’s holiness alongside demands for Israel’s observance of the mitzvot. The consistent message is not that the nation Israel is automatically holy, as if holiness were in some special Jewish gene each of us received when we were conceived. Rather, holiness is something the Torah requires us to foster in our communities and in ourselves. There is nothing special about being Jewish; there is something sacred in observing the Torah. Without the commandments, it means nothing to be a Jew. (And if there were some Jewish gene that made us special, should we conclude that converts to Judaism lack it? Such a conclusion is ridiculous—and offensive from the point of view of Jewish law, according to which all Jews are equally Jewish, regardless of whether one becomes Jewish by choice or by birth.)

Here the danger of Korah’s words becomes clear. Korah is less a liberal democrat than a certain kind of nationalist. He regards holiness not as an achievement but as a right. He remembers the verses that speak of Israel’s status without paying attention to what all those verses say we have to do to earn that status. By recalling the Torah selectively, he converts an ethical demand into a sense of entitlement.

Korah’s revolt, in the short term, achieved nothing. And yet Korahite thinking never fully disappeared. It endures to the present day. There are some Jews who want to take pride in being Jewish without doing anything to deserve that pride. These Jews have a racial or genetic idea of our specialness. Elements of Korahite thinking appear even among Jewish texts and thinkers that have managed to be within the mainstream. Yehudah Halevi was one of the greatest Hebrew poets; in fact some of his poems appear in our liturgy. But at times he expressed the view that there is something automatically special about Jews simply by virtue of their being born as Jews (and for this reason his acceptance of converts as fully Jews was less than complete, in contradiction to Jewish law). The Tanya, a work of popular mysticism by the founder of the Lubavitch movement, holds a similar view of Jewish specialness via birth. Occasional thinking along these lines appears also in the Zohar (e.g., 3:81a). Thinking of this sort can easily devolve into nationalistic, chauvinistic, and even bigoted attitudes. God’s response to Korah provides a definitive rejection of the idea that Jews are automatically special—and a reminder that it is performing the Torah’s commands that allows us to strive for holiness.

This commentary was originally published in 2013.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous
grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l)

Korah is a populist whose language is defined by what Michael Milburn and Sheree Conrad term “the politics of anger” (Raised to Rage, 2016). He confronts Moses and Aaron, not with constructive criticism nor a strategic vision for the community’s betterment, but rather with a clear desire to agitate and disrupt. Their challenge, cloaked in the language of equality and justice, is fundamentally self-serving. Korah’s question, “Why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?” (Num. 16:3), seems on the surface to advocate for communal equity, but it is in truth only a facade for his underlying ambition. After all, Moses repeatedly refused God’s call at the burning bush (Ex. 3:13, 4:1–13), and Aaron was only thereafter called by God to serve as Moses’s spokesperson (Ex. 4:14–16). Not only did the brothers not chase power, they attempted to escape it entirely.

In a fanciful midrash, Korah’s attempt to denigrate Moses and Aaron’s authority is expanded to include an additional facet: antinomianism, the rejection of law itself.

“And Korah took (Num. 16:1)”—What is written right before this? “Let them place a cord of tehelet (blue) to their tzitzit (Num. 15).” Korah jumped on this and said to Moses, “Is a tallit that is made entirely of tehelet exempt from the mitzvah of tzitzit?” Moses responded, “It requires tzitzit.” Korah responded, “An all-tehelet tallit is insufficient but four attached threads of blue suffice?!” [Korah then asked,] “Is a house full of Torah scrolls exempt from the mitzvah of mezuzah?” Moses responded, “It requires a mezuzah.” Korah said to him, “A house that holds all 275 sections of the Torah is insufficient, but one section in the doorway is sufficient?!” Korah said to Moses, “These matters, you were not commanded about them by God. From your own mind you added them.” This is why the Torah writes, “And Korah took.” This kind of language is always about divisions. ”

(Bemidbar Rabbah 18:3)

By framing tradition in this way, Korah sought to divide the community. He wasn’t truly asking meaningful questions, not in the biblical example of Moses’s and Aaron’s authority, and not in the midrashic cases of tzitzit and mezuzah. He was attempting to tear traditional structures down, all the while garbing his intentions with shallow claims of pursuing justice.

In our text, Korah taps into intense societal anxiety and “gaslights” the community, misdirecting them for the purpose of the very self-elevation with which he distorts Moses and Aaron’s leadership, recasting the beauty of mindful practice as a perversion of sanctity. Arguments motivated by ego are inherently destructive. Such disputes, driven by a need for recognition, at best undermine communal cohesion and stifle growth, at worst fracture societal bonds. Korah’s argument is not for the sake of heaven; it is a power play, a bid to usurp Moses and Aaron’s positions without regard for the well-being of the community. This is a stark contrast to arguments that are l’shem shamayim (for the sake of heaven), characterized by a genuine desire to improve community, to be of service to others.

In contrast, consider the Talmudic model of the debates between Hillel and Shammai. Though often passionate, the disputes of their competing schools of Jewish tradition were rooted in a shared commitment to discover divine truth and enhance communal life. Their arguments were constructive, aiming to clarify and deepen understanding rather than to dominate or embarrass. This approach to disagreement fosters growth and development, benefiting the entire community.

When faced with Korah’s rebellion, Moses does not respond with immediate condemnation nor defense of his own record. Instead, he falls on his face (Num. 16:4) in an act of humility and distress. Moses’s leadership is marked by his willingness to bear the burden of the people and his constant intercession on their behalf—even when they turn against him.

True leaders are those who see themselves as servants. They lead not for personal glory but out of a sense of duty. Such leaders prioritize the needs of the community over their own prominence.

These leaders model a divine quality the mystics call tzimtzum, the way they envision God having contracted God’s Infinite Light to create space for the world, a cosmic act of self-limitation. This notion of Divine Humility is a powerful counter-model to the human tendency towards ego, all too often the case in today’s complicated worlds of religion and politics where individuals conflate their own ambitions with the sacred obligations of powerful communal positions. Tzimtzum is the decentralization of one’s own authority, empowering and encouraging growth and development in others. This model contrasts sharply with those who seek to dominate and control and shows that true leadership lies in humility and the empowerment of others.

As the ancient sages of Pirkei Avot taught:

Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his council.

(M Avot 5:17)

Arguments for the sake of heaven, like those of Hillel and Shammai, foster understanding. Leaders who see themselves as servants, following the humble model of Moses and the Divine example of tzimtzum, create spaces where others can thrive and where true communal growth can occur.

In the end, Korah’s rebellion and its tragic outcome serve as a cautionary tale. They warn against the dangers of ego-driven disputes and self-serving authority figures. They remind us that true leadership requires humility, self-sacrifice, and a commitment to the greater good. And they call us to strive for arguments and to seek out leaders who consider service the highest value and the best use of power.

We have a marvelous love for this Government of ours; in fact, it is almost a religion, and it is well that it should be, because we have a splendid form of government and we have a splendid set of laws. We have everything here that we need, except that we have neglected the fundamentals upon which the American Government was principally predicated.

How many of you remember the first thing that the Declaration of Independence said? It said: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that there are certain inalienable rights for the people, and among them are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;” and it said further, “We hold the view that all men are created equal.”

Given the level of political demagoguery that has permeated (some would say befouled) the political process in America, few today remember the career of Huey Long, until recently considered the most significant demagogue to have ever ascended to the pinnacle of power in the United States. Reading the excerpts from one of his most famous speeches today, and evaluating some of his public works programs that attempted to redress economic imbalances between the rich and poor in America, one might be surprised that he was both loved—and feared. And even to this day scholars debate the degree to which Long’s populism was only a ruse to concentrate ever more power into his own hands and whether to consider him a fascist leader—who was indisputably on the rise until his assassination in 1935.

The memory of Huey Long, and the continued concern over the role of demagoguery in American politics, comes to mind this week because we see a prime example of it in Parashat Korah—the figure of Korah himself. (The character of Dathan, played by Edgar G. Robinson, in The Ten Commandments, was essentially based on Korah). Korah was long vilified by the Rabbinic Sages, and of course the Torah itself condemns him as the paradigmatic rebel against the divinely sanctioned leadership of Moses and Aaron.

Our portion quickly addresses the heart of the matter:

וַיִּקַּ֣ח קֹ֔רַח בֶּן־יִצְהָ֥ר בֶּן־קְהָ֖ת בֶּן־לֵוִ֑י וְדָתָ֨ן וַאֲבִירָ֜ם בְּנֵ֧י אֱלִיאָ֛ב וְא֥וֹן בֶּן־פֶּ֖לֶת בְּנֵ֥י רְאוּבֵֽן׃ ‎וַיָּקֻ֙מוּ֙ לִפְנֵ֣י מֹשֶׁ֔ה וַאֲנָשִׁ֥ים מִבְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל חֲמִשִּׁ֣ים וּמָאתָ֑יִם נְשִׂיאֵ֥י עֵדָ֛ה קְרִאֵ֥י מוֹעֵ֖ד אַנְשֵׁי־שֵֽׁם׃ ‎וַיִּֽקָּהֲל֞וּ עַל־מֹשֶׁ֣ה וְעַֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן וַיֹּאמְר֣וּ אֲלֵהֶם֮ רַב־לָכֶם֒ כִּ֤י כָל־הָֽעֵדָה֙ כֻּלָּ֣ם קְדֹשִׁ֔ים וּבְתוֹךָ֖ם ה’ וּמַדּ֥וּעַ תִּֽתְנַשְּׂא֖וּ עַל־קְהַ֥ל ה’:

Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, betook himself, along with Dathan and Abiram sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth—descendants of Reuben—to rise up against Moses, together with two hundred and fifty Israelites, chieftains of the community, chosen in the assembly, men of repute.  They combined against Moses and Aaron and said to them, “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the LORD is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the LORD’s congregation?”

Num. 16:1–3

A reader of the plain sense of biblical narrative (peshat) might not find anything particularly objectionable in the brief, programmatic speech of Korah. After all, only a few verses earlier, the Torah commands all Israelites (i.e., not only kohanim) to attach tzitzit to the corners of their garments, in order to demonstrate all Israel’s status as “Holy to the LORD” (Num. 15:40):  And even more significantly, in the narrative run-up to the Divine revelation on Mount Sinai, God is exquisitely clear on the subject:  וְעַתָּ֗ה אִם־שָׁמ֤וֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ֙ בְּקֹלִ֔י וּשְׁמַרְתֶּ֖ם אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֑י וִהְיִ֨יתֶם לִ֤י סְגֻלָּה֙ מִכָּל־הָ֣עַמִּ֔ים כִּי־לִ֖י כָּל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ וְאַתֶּ֧ם תִּהְיוּ־לִ֛י מַמְלֶ֥כֶת כֹּהֲנִ֖ים וְג֣וֹי קָד֑וֹש, “Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod. 19:5–6). Seen in light of this biblical context, what Korah proclaims does not seem off base, at least at first blush.

Moreover, even some of our most prominent rabbinic exegetes assess Korah’s statement soberly, even as they were aware of his ultimate downfall. For example, in his commentary on Numbers 16:3, Rashi unpacks Korah’s words in a not unsympathetic vein:  מדוע תתנשאו, “Why do you (Moses and Aaron) raise yourselves above the LORD’s congregation?” But then, channeling the words of Midrash Tanhuma, Rashi changes the Bible’s plural address into a speech of Korah directly to Moses:  אם לקחת אתה מלכות, לא היה לך לברור לאחיך כהונה  לא אתם לבדכם שמעתם בסיני: אנכי י”י אלהיך, כל העדה שמעו, “If you have taken royal rank for yourself, you should at least not have chosen the priesthood for your brother—it is not you two alone who heard at Sinai: ‘I am the LORD your God’, all the congregation heard it!”  To his credit, Rashi understands that there is nothing objectionable per se in Korah’s words.

Another of our greatest medieval masters, Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, similarly analyzes the biblical narrative and is ostensibly willing to understand Korah’s charge as having some basis in the narrative truth of the Torah. Thus, we see through these observations, it is not on the basis of the charge itself that Korah is condemned, rather it must be something else. So, why does the Torah consider him as worthy of the death penalty?

Rabbi Yosef Bekhor Shor, a student of Rashi’s grandsons, offers an explanation that helps us understand Korah’s more insidious motives:

מתוך תשובתו של משה שאמר להם: ובקשתםגםכהונה, אתה למד שעל הכהונה היה מערער. אלא שהיה מדבר כמו בשביל כל העדה, כדי שיאותו כולם לדבריו, ולא יאמרו שמא הוא מבקש לעצמו.

From Moses’s response, in which he said to Korah (Now that God has advanced you and all your fellow Levites with you), do you seek the priesthood too? (Num. 16:10), one learns that it was in seeking the High Priesthood that Korah sought to subvert (the leadership of Moses and Aaron). But Korah would speak as though he was speaking on behalf of the entire congregation, so that all would become accommodated to his words, and would not realize that he was simply seeking (power) for himself.

That Korah’s seemingly reasonable words were in fact nothing more than a power grab was seen by a character more or less invented whole cloth by the rabbis in the midrash, the wife of the mysterious figure of On ben Peleth. On is mentioned in the opening of our parashah (“Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, betook himself, along with Dathan and Abiram sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth . . . ).  However, after this appearance, On is never mentioned again.^[1]  The midrash, picking up this oddity of introducing a character in an important episode but then failing to mention him again in the narrative, imagines the following conversation between On and his clever wife:

אמר רב: און בן פלת – אשתו הצילתו. אמרה ליה: מאי נפקא לך מינה? אי מר רבה אנת תלמידא, ואי מר רבה אנת תלמידא!  אמר לה מאי אעביד? הואי בעצה ואשתבעי לי בהדייהו. אמרה ליה: ידענא דכולה כנישתא קדישתא נינהו דכתיב,  כיכלהעדהכולםקדושים.  אמרה ליה תוב דאנא מצילנא לך. אשקיתיה חמרא וארויתיה ואגניתיה גואי אותבה על בבא וסתרתה למזיה כל דאתא חזיה הדר אדהכי והכי אבלעו להו.

Rav says: On, son of Peleth, his wife saved him. She said to him: What is the difference to you? If this Master (i.e., Moses), is the great one, you are the student. And if this Master (i.e., Korah), is the great one, you are the student. On said to her: What shall I do? I took counsel and I took an oath with them that I would be with them. She said to him: I know that the entire assembly is holy, as it is written: “For all the assembly is holy” (Num. 16:3). She said to him: Sit, for I will save you. She gave him wine to drink and caused him to become drunk and laid him inside their tent. She sat at the entrance and exposed her hair. Anyone who came and saw her stepped back. In the meantime (Korah and the other rebels) were swallowed . . .

Sanhedrin 109b–110a

 —and On, son of Peleth, escaped punishment!

Not only does this midrash explain the disappearance of a character from the biblical narrative, it creates a character, On’s wife, who insightfully discerns what her husband has not seen, namely, that Korah’s “program” is little more than a power grab, however he couches it. If all the Israelites are de facto “junior partners” in the leadership structure, despite all of them “being holy,” that will not change under Korah. And when she cites the verse “the entire assembly is holy, as it is written,” she understands that not as the opening to undermine the divinely sanctioned leadership, but rather as an aspirational observation that is supposed to lead the congregation to holiness in interpersonal relations. (That she exploits this knowledge to save her husband is not a detriment but rather serves to make her a gutsy heroine in another vein altogether.)

That we live in a world of conflict is a given, both in the Bible and ever since. Wise people learn to discern the difference between leaders who would guide society, through conflicts, to its better self, and those who would seek to undermine authority under the ruse that they are fighting “for the common man”—when in reality they seek only to establish themselves in power and enrich themselves while they are doing it. The Sages rightfully intuited Korah’s true nature in their observation in the Mishnah:

כָּל מַחֲלֹקֶת שֶׁהִיא לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם, סוֹפָהּ לְהִתְקַיֵּם. וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם, אֵין סוֹפָהּ לְהִתְקַיֵּם. אֵיזוֹ הִיא מַחֲלֹקֶת שֶׁהִיא לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם, זוֹ מַחֲלֹקֶת הִלֵּל וְשַׁמַּאי. וְשֶׁאֵינָהּ לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם, זוֹ מַחֲלֹקֶת קֹרַח וְכָל עֲדָתוֹ:

Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his congregation.

Avot 5:17

May we gain and preserve the discernment to steer clear always from demagoguery, and to support leaders who do not exploit the natural divisions within society but lead people, despite their differences, to lead good—indeed, holy—lives.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

^[1]For a pithy explanation of a contemporary, text-critical approach, see the insightful commentary of Jacob Milgrom, The JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1990), 313, n. 4.

One might think that this relationship would become less weird twelve years after my ordination, but to this day I always prefer that people just call me “Josh.” And yet, I continue to call my teachers from rabbinical school by their title of Rabbi, Professor, or Dr. long after my contemporaries felt comfortable calling them by their first names. I suppose that this self-contradiction is proof that people are consistently inconsistent, but my general hesitation stems from the fact that I want to exercise Jewish leadership because of the work that I do, rather than the title that I hold. The fact that I am a rabbi means that I possess professional training and skills that allow me to serve people in a particular way. But leadership is an entirely different goal, one not given to me by my title, but one I can only hope to model through my actions.

In Parashat Korah, we are forced to witness the possibility of Moshe’s mantle of leadership slipping away from him through the rebellion of Korah and his followers.  Although ultimately God intervenes in this conflict by causing the earth to swallow up Korah and his followers (), few people reading the parashah would be blamed for thinking that Korah has a point upon the start of his rebellion.   

Every time I read this parashah, the hypothetical questions I ponder are endless: What exactly is wrong about Korah’s critique of Moshe? Would the Israelites not make it to Canaan if they were led by someone else other than Moshe? However, a deeper exploration of the parashah reveals that our tradition wants us to focus less on the hypotheticals and more on the powerful statement about leadership made by choosing Moshe and rejecting Korah.

Upon challenging Moshe and Aharon, Korah audaciously asks, “Why do you uplift yourselves over the congregation of Adonai?” (). Looking at the context of our parashah, many of our earlier commentators argue that Korah’s critique is rooted in the fact that Moshe and Aharon, two brothers, hold both the highest political and religious positions among the Israelites. Regarding this verse, Rashi states that “it is one thing for you [Moshe] to have taken the kingship for yourself—but you shouldn’t have assigned the priesthood to Aharon” (), and Ibn Ezra states, “Making Aharon the High Priest and Moshe, who taught him what to do, even higher than him [is the root of Korah’s critique]” (). In each case, our commentaries assume that Korah rebels because he’s angry that Moshe’s family is holding all the levers of religious and political power.

At first glance, Korah’s critique appears to have merit. The Talmud Yerushalmi contains several references to the edict that “priests may be not anointed as kings” (), likely due to the rabbis’ displeasure toward the decision of the Hasmoneans to simultaneously hold both the kingship and the priesthood. Yet a midrash identifies an important difference between Aharon and the Hasmonean dynasty:

Moshe said to them: If my brother Aharon had seized the priesthood for himself, your complaints against him would have been well-put. But since it was given to him by the Holy One, blessed be God—to Whom belong greatness, might, and majesty—is not anyone who rises up against Aharon rising up against the Holy One, blessed be God? Therefore it is written, “For who is Aharon that you should rail against him?”

()

According to the midrash, Moshe and Aharon hold their roles because God decided that they would; the appointment is permanent. They did not take the roles by force. Yet taking a role by force is exactly what Korah intends to do, exactly the kind of leadership model the rabbis want to critique regarding the Hasmoneans. By misunderstanding the nature of Moshe and Aharon’s leadership, Korah makes a categorization mistake that undermines his entire claim to power.

Moshe and Aharon’s leadership is sui generis; God gave them roles because that’s the way that God wanted it. For the rest of us, leadership must be earned, a truth far too many people forget.

In Leadership on the Line, Ronald Heifetz and Martin Linsky argue that it is easy for leaders to forget that “authority gained is a product of social expectations” (168). When a person is ready to do the work, when they provide something that improves the lives of others, leadership becomes possible. In contrast, Heifetz and Linsky warn us that “to believe it [authority] comes from you is an illusion. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Korah wanted a title, a title he neither earned through doing the work, nor received due to divine mandate. That’s why the Torah and our rabbinic tradition look so poorly upon his rebellion. What appears to be a legitimate critique against Moshe and Aharon is actually a heretical notion of leadership, where a person tries to seize power because they believe it is owed to them.

Moshe’s leadership is unique because he did not seek out leadership but thrived in it once he answered the call to serve. Regarding this, Rabbi Meshulam Feivish of Zabriza writes in Yosher Divrei Emet that we should “[learn from Moshe’s own reluctance to lead] not to compete for any mitzvah that has an aspect of authority in it. Flee from such a thing. If it is right for you, God will force the whole world to make that opportunity for leadership come your way” (#30, 33–34).

Moshe and Aharon were literally called to leadership, yet all of us today must earn it.  Authority born from feelings of entitlement is the most corrosive kind of authority, the kind our tradition interprets into Korah’s rebellion. Real authority is earned through leadership and goodness, the kind we have an obligation to teach ourselves, our families, and our communities.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Aren’t we all sometimes susceptible to wanting power and authority for selfish and ego-driven reasons? Isn’t it difficult to know if our ideas about how our communities, institutions, country, and world function are motivated by a commitment to justice or a desire to be the one leading?

The Rabbis are quick to recognize that ego and drive are not entirely bad. We learn in the Talmud ( and in ) that without ego, drive, and the evil inclination, we would neither create nor advance. We would still be stuck in the Garden of Eden and procreation would cease.

There was, however, a quality to Korah’s drive that the rabbis refer to as jealousy and warn of as a liability.  Rabbeinu Bahya on  describes Korah as “dressed” in jealousy. Rabbeinu Bahya explains that jealousy is a negative character trait for which there is no therapy. He asserts that when one makes choices motivated by insatiable jealousy, even if they achieve what they sought, they remain unhappy. They have accustomed themself to act in a scheming fashion.

This has a been a polarizing year for our society. Many of our systems are broken. Times such as these call on each of us to actively participate in building the kind of society in which we feel called to live. I have been inspired by the Mussar tradition as I consider how to react and I have also wondered how the Korah story might have ended differently, had he been a Mussar practitioner.

The Mussar tradition suggests that a regular practice of meditation and soul-refinement exercises can help us discern if our interest in reform or revolution is motivated by a desire to aggrandize ourselves or by a more grounded desire for making the world whole.

Author David Jaffe in his book Changing the World from the Inside Out shares Mussar suggestions for regular discernment. The following are practices that in my imagination could have yielded different outcomes for Korah and his followers.

Hitbodedut is the practice of regularly speaking from the heart in one’s own language directly to God. The act of pouring out one’s soul can reduce the toxic emotions we carry around and allow us to feel and name what is most important to us—our true desire. If Korah had engaged in hitbodedut, he could have given voice to his envy and acknowledged his fervent desire for more power and prestige. He would then have opportunities for both inner and outer work. He could have identified a position of leadership that was not yet occupied. And he could have worked to confront his desire for attention. By articulating to God his jealousy of Aaron’s role as the High Priest, he might have alleviated some of the sting and freed himself up for creative work. 

Kibbush Hayetzer is conquering your inclination and transforming it through practice. Through this practice, we acknowledge the urges we have and then we choose not to act on them. Through hitbodedut Korah could have given voice to his desire to become the High Priest and his disappointment that Moses and Aaron had the highest honors. He then could have conquered this desire by choosing not to act upon that disappointment. By repeatedly engaging in kibbush hayetzer and choosing not to act on the impulse to lash out, he would improve his chances of minimizing his jealousy.

In Mussar we learn that everybody always has some sort of choice. Developing a behira (choice) practice allows you to keep spotting and making choices that bring you closer to God and closer to who you want to be in the world. The more frequently you recognize opportunities to choose, the more you shape your path and orient it toward service to God. Korah had several choice points, however he mainly did not recognize them as choices. Identifying these moments as choices and then choosing different reactions could have led him to a different outcome that did not involve being swallowed up by the earth, along with his followers.

We learn in  that we should not separate ourselves from the community. Korah did separate himself and he took 250 leaders of the community with him. Instead of fomenting rebellion, he could have gathered those people and asked them what keeps them up at night. It is possible that as he heard people’s troubles he would have reconsidered whether his own trouble—that he was not the kohen gadol—was a cause worthy of rebellion. He was envious, but was that real trouble? Instead of separating himself and privileging his own needs, he could have strived to gain a fuller perspective of the community’s needs and acted for the greater good.

Moses also offers us an opportunity for Mussar learning in this parashah. When Korah challenges him for taking too much power for himself, Moses’s first reaction is to fall upon his face humbly. Later in the parashah he does not act quite as nobly, urging God to punish Korah and his supporters in a public and deadly spectacle. Moses’s choice to urge God to act that way was likely driven by his ego. According to the Mussar tradition, well-cultivated humility means knowing when and how to make oneself small, and when and how to act boldly. Korah seems to lack humility entirely in the story as we know it. Moses has it, but it is a practice, and in this story, we see him model it both well and poorly.

We are living at a time with numerous threats and challenges and each of us must be involved in repairing the world. Informed by Korah and his followers and Moses, I invite us to ask ourselves the following questions daily:

• What is really in my heart? Have I communicated it in conversation with God, laying my heart bare and honestly speaking my yearnings into being? Hopefully, this naming of feelings and motivations will take away some of the power of the hardest ones. It will also reveal the feelings on which we need to work because they do not represent our best selves. Finally, it will clarify what is in our hearts at the core, on which we can act.
• Did I regularly make choices today that advance my connection to God?
• How am I managing humility?

May the Mussar lessons we learn from Korah and his followers, as well as Moses, help us to know ourselves and summon our best intentions and skills to create a just world.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Parashat Korah portrays two rebellions as if they were one: the rebellion of Korah of the tribe of Levi against the priestly supremacy of Aaron, and the rebellion of Dathan, Abiram, and On, all from the tribe of Reuben, against the political authority of Moses. The targets of the two rebellions are different (Moses and Aaron in the Korah rebellion; Moses alone in the Reubenite rebellion) and the punishments meted out are different (a consuming fire in the first; swallowing up by the earth in the second). The 12th-century biblical exegete Ibn Ezra noted these two distinct strands in his commentary on Numbers (16:35) and modern biblical scholars, such as Robert Alter, agree with that conclusion (The Art of Biblical Narrative, 168–169). The reason why the two rebellions are intertwined and portrayed as one is unknown, but one thing is clear: the protests challenged both the sacerdotal and political power structure.

On its face, the rebellion of Korah had a populist appeal: “They combined against Moses and Aaron and said to them, ‘You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?’” (Num. 16:3). To our ears, that appeal for greater democracy and equality seems quite reasonable, but Moses (and the careful reader of the text) knows that these are the words of a demagogue—someone corrupting God’s imperative to become a holy people (Lev. 19:2) with, most likely, his personal ambition to seize the priesthood for himself. Later in the narrative, Dathan and Abiram take another arrow from the demagogue’s quiver and distort historical fact to cast a pall over Moses’s political leadership: “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey [They are referring to Egypt!] to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?” (Num. 16:13). Hiding one’s corrupt ambition for unrestrained power behind a veil of superficial reasonableness and perverting the truth and historical facts are the handmaids of demagoguery.

In the face of these challenges, Moses demonstrates exemplary leadership. His first reaction is anguish and humility: “When Moses heard this, he fell on his face” (16:4) and “Moses was much aggrieved” (16:15). He was, no doubt, in great pain that rebels such as these have found a following among the community to which he had devoted his life. But Moses immediately recovers and proposes a test of religious authenticity (the offering of sacred fire) to Korah, who has backed himself into a corner and must agree to the test. He also offers to sit down and parley with Dathan and Abiram, but they refuse to engage in dialogue about their grievances and thereby disavow Moses’s authority in its entirety. As expected, things go quite badly for the rebels as God causes them to be incinerated and swallowed up by the earth.

While condemning the demagoguery and ruthless ambition of Korah and the other ringleaders, our Rabbis recognized that protests, arguments, and controversies are often praiseworthy. “Any dispute which is for the sake of Heaven will in the end yield results; and any which is not for the sake of Heaven will in the end not yield results” (M. Avot 5:17). The protests of Korah and his followers clearly fall into the latter category, as the Mishnah explicitly recognizes. But protests against repression and for human dignity, protests that challenge the abuse of state and police power that snuffs out the lives of black men and other people who have been marginalized and debased, protests that challenge us to live up to the ideals we affirm as Jews and that reflect the biblical principal that all persons are created in the image of God and that to extinguish the life of one is to diminish God’s presence in this world—these protests, when conducted peacefully, are surely for the sake of Heaven, and we pray that they will in the end yield results.

For our political leaders, the message of our parashah and the example of Moses provide clear guideposts: reject the half-truths and historical distortions of demagogues (don’t romanticize earlier times when our fellow citizens were enslaved or later denied their basic rights), exhibit the anguish and humility of Moses rather than indifference or incitement. And finally, know that the true test of moral and political leadership is not words but results. Like Moses, we must prove the legitimacy of our authority not through words but with actions and achievements.

In a remarkable reversal of accepted rabbinic understanding of this parashah, the Hasidic sage, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, the Kotzker Rebbe, referred to Korah as “unzer heilige zeide”—our holy grandfather. How can this be? How can this demagogue be “our holy grandfather”? The rebbe’s meaning is a mystery but let me offer a possible interpretation of his words. We are all descendants of Korah, because we are heirs to a tradition of rebellion against perceived injustice. And he is our “holy grandfather,” because his expressed vision—of a community where everyone is treated as equally holy and entitled to respect and freedom from arbitrary and abusive authority—is one worthy of pursuit.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

The parashah opens with Korah and his followers approaching Moses to claim their own mantle of authority, arguing that Moses and Aaron should not be above the rest of the nation because “all of the community, everyone is holy” (Num, 16:3). Unsurprisingly, God does not take well to this challenge, and the story ends in dramatic fashion, with the earth opening its mouth and swallowing Korah and his followers whole (vv.31–33). So in this version of the challenge, those who question God’s appointed leaders are not only to be ignored, they are to be punished with great violence and fury.

In Pirkei Avot, the dispute of Korach and his congregation is held up as the paradigm of mahloket shelo leshem shamayim, a dispute that is not for the sake of heaven (M. Avot 5:17). Korah’s claim is not made in good faith, and therefore, he must be understood as the threat that he is. There is no value to Korah‘s challenge, nor in Korah himself. Instead, he must be destroyed, in order that he does not destroy Moses’s authority.

However, 11 chapters after the story of Korah, the Torah tells another story of people who come forward to challenge Moses’s authority. Here too, there is a complaint about a particular distribution of power in society. However, where the story of Korah ends in the violent death of hundreds, this narrative ends in Moses granting the correctness of the challenge, with the backing of God. Which story is this? This is the story of the daughters of Tzelofehad.

The daughters of Tzelofehad come to Moses with a complaint, just like Korah. They assert that their father’s death has ensured that his family will not inherit a share of the land of Canaan, because their father had only daughters. Far from rebuking these women, Moses takes their question straight to God. God affirms that the sisters should inherit their fathers’ portion, and thus, a new law is made (Num. 27:1–11).

While these stories have dramatically different outcomes, there are clues in the Torah that they are meant to be read as a pair. First, both stories list the names of the parties involved in the challenge, singling them out as distinct from among the nation. Second, the daughters tell Moses explicitly that their father was not among the congregation of Korah, but that he instead died from a different sin (v. 3), suggesting that they do not want to be linked to Korah’s legacy. Third, in both cases, Moses turns to God to understand how to resolve the challenge, rather than trying to solve it himself. The parallels are clear.

However, there are also important differences. The Torah uses the word vayikahalu, they assembled (16:3), to explain how Korah and his congregation approached Moses and Aaron, implying the formation of a distinct renegade faction within the people. In contrast, the daughters of Tzelofehad are vatikravnah, they come close (27:1), suggesting that their challenge is not one of civil strife, but rather, of a desire to come closer to the rest of the community. Their approach is intended to be productive, improving the cohesion of the community, not oppositional.

Therefore, what we see here is that the difference between Korah and Tzelofehad’s daughters is less in their ways of raising their concern and more in their actual goals, whether stated or unstated. Maimonides, in his commentary on the Mishnah, explains that the problem with Korah and his congregation is that they are not seeking truth, but instead, are simply trying to open up conflict. However, those who argue for the sake of heaven are seeking truth, and are willing to meet it wherever they find it, whether that truth helps them achieve their goals or not. The daughters of Tzelofehad do have an agenda, but they are genuinely seeking a ruling from God. Their willingness to work within the system, instead of in opposition to it, is what allows their challenge to Moses to endure, and for the law to change in their favor.

Returning to our original question, what these two stories tell us is not that the Torah rejects the idea that leaders can be challenged. Instead, they should be challenged when there is a genuine injustice being perpetrated, whether intentionally or not. However, those challenges are only worthwhile if they are brought for the sake of seeking truth, instead of solely to pursue a particular predetermined agenda. Judaism is a religion that values dispute, rather than shying from it. But it is only when we are like the daughters of Tzelofehad, bringing challenges for the sake of heaven, that those challenges and their righteousness will endure.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).