Ego Disguised as Righteousness: What Parshat Korach Teaches About Leadership, Parenting, and the Power of Presence

The Wound Behind the Argument

Korach’s rebellion is one of the most mystifying episodes in the Torah. He doesn’t deny Hashem. He doesn’t advocate for idolatry or seek to return to Egypt. He doesn’t renounce the covenant. Instead, he cloaks his uprising in the language of holiness: “The entire assembly is holy, and Hashem is among them — why do you elevate yourselves over the congregation of Hashem?” (Bamidbar 16:3). It sounded noble — egalitarian, even. But the Torah is not deceived by language. As Rashi explains, this wasn’t a call for justice. It was a cry of ego. Not about the people — about Korach himself.

The Midrash offers a painful glimpse beneath the rhetoric. Korach’s rupture began when Elitzafan ben Uziel — from a younger branch of the family — was appointed to a leadership position that Korach believed should have been his. Quiet disappointment hardened into a campaign. A private wound became a public ideology. And because the message was wrapped in spiritual language, others followed without seeing the hurt beneath.

The Sefat Emet teaches that ego is most dangerous not when it boasts, but when it borrows the voice of virtue. When pride masquerades as principle, it becomes nearly impossible to uproot — because the one holding it truly believes they are standing for truth, when in fact, they are protecting a part of themselves that feels unseen or unworthy.

Modern trauma theory echoes this insight. When a person feels rejected, invisible, or unsafe — especially in foundational relationships — the ego often rises to protect the soul. It builds a narrative to make sense of the pain: “If I wasn’t chosen, the system must be broken.” “If I was overlooked, the leaders must be corrupt.” It becomes too painful to simply feel unwanted — so the psyche builds a story around the hurt. And if that story is never examined, it solidifies into distortion. The ego stops defending truth — and starts defending the illusion of safety.

This dynamic isn’t just ancient. It plays out in homes today — especially with teens in emotional or spiritual crisis.

A child pushes back. A teen lashes out, accuses the community, questions Torah, or distances from the very people who love them. And sometimes, it sounds like ideology: “This is all fake.” “You’re all hypocrites.” “Why should I trust a system that ignored my pain?” And sometimes — they’re not wrong. But what drives the anger isn’t always clarity. Sometimes, it’s the ache of never feeling enough. Sometimes, it’s the terror of being wrong — because if I’m wrong, then maybe I’m worthless. The ego builds a binary: either I am completely right, or I don’t matter at all.

And if we only hear the argument — we’ll miss the ache underneath.

The Blinding Power of Ego — When Pain Becomes a Platform Instead of a Prayer

The Zohar teaches that gaavah — ego — is more than a character flaw. It’s a spiritual distortion. When ego takes hold, it clouds perception and blocks divine light. It doesn’t just alter how we behave — it alters what we see. A person becomes so centered on their image of rightness that they can no longer perceive what’s actually true.

The Arizal offers a powerful visual: the letters of gaavah (ג–א–ו–ה) resemble the divine name Havayah (י–ה–ו–ה), but in the wrong order — a kind of spiritual mimicry. Two substitutions stand out. The letter Gimel (ג) replaces Yud (י). Yud, small and humble, represents contraction — the self-nullification that makes space for God. Gimel, by contrast, denotes movement, pursuit — a drive that, without humility, becomes self-assertion. Then Alef (א) replaces Heh (ה), which signifies openness, receptivity, and the breath of divine presence. Alef, though sacred, can symbolize singularity — and untethered, it turns rigid. These distortions reshape something that resembles holiness — and bend it inward. It becomes ego cloaked in righteousness.

That’s what we see in Korach. On the surface, his words sound principled: “All of the nation is holy.” But beneath them lies something else. His message doesn’t bring him closer to Hashem — it separates him. It doesn’t lead him to inner reflection — it fuels performance. He doesn’t pause to ask whether pain has blurred his vision. He just speaks louder, gathers more voices, builds momentum. And that’s how we know it’s no longer about truth. It’s about being seen. Being right. Being validated.

This is one of the deepest dangers in emotional and spiritual struggle: when pain becomes identity, and identity becomes ideology. A teenager who feels unseen may begin by expressing sadness or doubt. But if those feelings are met with fear or dismissal, they may stop sharing. Instead, they start constructing arguments. “The system failed me.” “It’s all fake.” “There’s nothing here for me.” The voice grows sharper — but underneath, there’s often a quiet plea: Do you still see me? Even now?

For parents, this moment is agonizing. The instinct is to explain, correct, convince. But that impulse rarely reaches the place where the pain lives.

Moshe offers another path. He doesn’t argue with Korach. He doesn’t try to prove himself. He falls on his face. He steps inward. He enters a place of bittul — spiritual humility. He knows that when ego takes the stage, truth can’t be shouted back into the room.

The Kedushat Levi writes that when a person is consumed by ego, they lose access to their deeper self. Only humility can reopen that door. Confrontation doesn’t soften ego — it strengthens it. But calm presence creates space for something else to emerge.

That’s the quiet work of a parent facing rupture. Not to dismantle the argument, but to hold the heart behind it. Not to chase control, but to remain soft and steady enough that the child beneath the armor knows: they are still safe. And still loved.

When Ego Becomes a Movement

One of the most chilling moments in Parshat Korach is not the complaint itself — but how quickly it spreads. Within a short time, two hundred and fifty men — “princes of the assembly, famous in the congregation, men of renown” — attach themselves to Korach’s rebellion. These weren’t outsiders. They were trusted leaders. Men with status. Influence. Names people respected. And yet, they lent their voices to a movement born not of righteousness, but of resentment.

How does that happen?

The Midrash paints a troubling picture: Korach walks through the camp, twisting halachic scenarios into provocations. He makes Moshe’s leadership look arbitrary. He doesn’t ask sincere questions — he stages spectacles. His goal isn’t understanding — it’s erosion. Of trust. Of nuance. He uses halacha not to uplift, but to humiliate. And slowly, the emotional momentum overtakes the truth. People stop asking hard questions. They stop looking inward. They follow the noise.

The Baal HaTanya writes that when ego takes the lead, a person no longer seeks truth. They seek validation. They surround themselves not with mirrors, but with megaphones — voices that amplify their narrative, not refine it. That’s what happened in Korach’s camp. He didn’t gather chaverim — he gathered reflections of himself. Echoes, not checks. Allies in grievance, not seekers of emet.

And this pattern isn’t confined to ancient rebellions. It lives on — in subtler but no less destructive ways — in the emotional worlds of teenagers.

A struggling teen who feels invisible at home may find belonging elsewhere. Sometimes it’s a friend group. Sometimes a chat thread. Sometimes a whole online world where others share their disillusionment, their rage, their stories of hurt. It begins with solidarity — but slowly, the shared pain hardens into identity. The grievance becomes gospel. And unless someone steps in with both love and clarity — someone who can say, “Your pain is real, but it’s not all of you” — the ego builds its own theology. A theology of rejection. A worldview that justifies pulling away from everyone and everything that once felt holy.

But Moshe doesn’t feed the noise. He doesn’t argue with the crowd. He doesn’t match slogans with counter-slogans. He steps back from the theater and turns toward the few who might still hear. He tries again with Datan and Aviram. He pleads with the wider camp — not to punish, but to protect. “Step back,” he says. “Don’t get pulled into this.” Not because you’re superior — but because you still have a choice. You can still return to center. You can still choose presence over performance, soul over side.

This is the avodah of the parent, too. Sometimes, when a child is consumed by grievance, the temptation is to argue, to prove, to pull harder. But ego doesn’t yield to pressure. It yields to safety. To consistency. To love that stays close without collusion. Firm without rejection. Present without panic.

Because sometimes the most powerful way to love someone through their ego is not to confront it — but to quietly stay. Until they’re ready to return to who they were before the ache became their armor.

Boundaries Without Bitterness — When Ego Rejects the Invitation to Return

Moshe tries. Even after the mockery. Even after the humiliation. Even after the threat to his life and his mission. He sends for Datan and Aviram — not with force, but with hope. A gesture of humility, of courage, of faith that the door to return must never be locked.

But they refuse.

“We will not go up,” they declare (Bamidbar 16:12). Not just a rejection — a refusal to even engage. And worse, they twist the story itself. “Is it not enough that you brought us out of a land flowing with milk and honey to die in the wilderness?” (16:13). In their retelling, Egypt — the place of their bondage — becomes paradise. And Moshe, the one who risked his entire life for their freedom, becomes the tyrant.

The Netziv explains that this is what happens when ego becomes rigid. It doesn’t just say no — it rewrites reality. It reverses memory. It refuses vulnerability. Because to heal would require softening. And softening feels like surrender. So the ego protects itself the only way it knows how: by clinging to the grievance. By needing to stay angry. By telling a story that keeps the wound shielded — even at the expense of truth.

And still, Moshe doesn’t retaliate. He pleads with the community — not to punish, but to protect. He draws the line, but without hatred. He holds the boundary — but not with bitterness.

That’s what makes his leadership holy. And that’s what makes parenting through rupture so impossibly hard.

Because sometimes a child spirals into their own version of “we will not go up.” They shut down. They push away. They take the love offered to them and call it control. They look at the very people trying to help them and say: “You’re the problem.” And the pain of that can feel unbearable. It’s only human to want to say: “If you won’t talk to me, then I’m done.”

But Moshe doesn’t close his heart. He allows the distance — but he doesn’t abandon the hope.

The Tiferet Shlomo teaches that true gevurah — true spiritual strength — isn’t about overpowering. It’s about staying open without collapsing. It’s about drawing a line and saying, “I can’t join you in distortion,” while still whispering, “But I’m here when you’re ready.”

This is the avodah of parenting a teen in pain. To set limits, yes. To hold the line, yes. But not with coldness. Not with exile. With trembling love. With heartbreak and dignity in the same breath. To let your child feel the consequence of disconnection — but never the absence of your care. To hold the door open, even when they walk away.

Because sometimes the path back doesn’t start with agreement. It starts with the memory that the invitation to return was never revoked.

The Collapse of Ego — And What Remains After the Fire

The ground opens. The fire descends. The moment of reckoning arrives. But the most striking part of the story is not the spectacle — it’s the sorrow that precedes it.

Moshe pleads. He warns. He steps back — not to gloat, but to shield the innocent. Even when Hashem threatens the destruction of the entire congregation, Moshe and Aharon fall on their faces and cry out: “Shall one man sin, and You be angry with the entire assembly?” (Bamidbar 16:22). Their cry — trembling, desperate, full of compassion — reveals the soul of leadership: the refusal to flatten people into enemies, the courage to see nuance, the strength to love even while standing alone in truth.

Moshe never lets justice harden into ego. He holds his ground — but not with arrogance. He names the danger — but doesn’t abandon the vulnerable. That balance — of boundary and rachamim — is what makes him not just a leader, but a spiritual shepherd. He sees through the noise without losing sight of the humanity beneath it.

Korach, Datan, and Aviram can’t do the same. Their ego has grown too fused with their identity. They cannot soften without feeling erased. They cannot admit wrong without believing it makes them worthless. So they cling to the only thing that still makes them feel powerful: defiance. And ego, once it hardens, doesn’t just block teshuva. It severs the soul from itself. It isolates. It blinds. It whispers that to yield is to disappear. That to bend is to be broken. And so — rather than soften — they shatter.

The Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:2) likens Korach’s rebellion to fire catching on dry reeds — quick to spark, impossible to contain. It wasn’t the disagreement that destroyed them — it was the fire beneath it: resentment wrapped in holiness. Outrage cloaked in piety. Conviction fueled by ego. Once that fire burns, it leaves no space for truth. Just ash.

Parents living through rupture with a child know this fire well. The explosions. The slammed doors. The rewriting of history. And sometimes, the temptation is to do the same. To declare, “I’ve done enough.” To shut the door and lock the hope. But Moshe teaches something different. Even when the fire comes — even when it consumes what was — the avodah isn’t over.

Because relationships are not measured only by what breaks. They are revealed by what remains.

Moshe stays. Not naïvely. Not without pain. But with a heart still open. A presence still grounded. A faith that beneath the collapse, something holy can still emerge. That even when ego falls apart — in a teen, a parent, or a people — there must be something soft still standing. Something that didn’t run. A place where return is still possible. Teshuva doesn’t begin in triumph. It begins in what survives the fire: a love that didn’t harden.

When Blossoms Replace the Fire — Humility That Heals

After the collapse of Korach and his followers, something extraordinary happens. Hashem instructs each tribal leader to place their staff in the Mishkan — plain pieces of wood, equal in form, lifeless in function. By morning, one has changed. Aharon’s staff has come alive. It has blossomed with almond flowers and borne fruit. From stillness, life emerges.

No declaration. No spectacle. Just quiet, unmissable growth.

The contrast could not be sharper. Korach grabs for power through performance. Aharon receives confirmation through presence. Both hold staffs — but one becomes a symbol of collapse, the other, of kedusha. What makes the difference? Not charisma. Not louder words. But something quieter: humility. Inner alignment. Aharon never demanded greatness. He stood in silence when others shouted. He made space when others stirred unrest. He didn’t posture or protest. He simply remained — steady, compassionate, real.

The Chidushei HaRim teaches that the almond — the fastest to blossom — reflects how swiftly true holiness reveals itself when it grows from humility. Ego burns hot and leaves ash. But humility, even when slow, yields life.

And this, perhaps, is the final message of Parshat Korach — and one of the deepest invitations for parents walking through disconnection. When a child is spiraling, spiritually distant, emotionally angry, or pushing back at everything you tried to build — the impulse is to grasp tighter. To reassert control. To lecture, to clamp down, to prove your love through authority.

But Aharon’s staff whispers another path: life returns when space is held with gentleness. When being there matters more than being right. When love waits patiently instead of demanding resolution.

We all carry a staff. We all hold roles as parents, teachers, leaders. The question is not whether we lead — but how. Do we wield our strength like Korach — to defend pride, to mask fear, to control what we cannot bear to lose? Or do we offer our presence like Aharon — open-handed, rooted in humility, willing to be soft even when the world demands that we be hard?

Because in the end, it is not debate that proves truth. Not control that secures holiness. It is what flowers. What outlasts the fire. What returns in the stillness. That’s where healing begins. That’s where trust is rebuilt. That’s how love — real love — survives.

Closing Reflection: What Real Strength Looks Like

There is a kind of strength that doesn’t shout. That doesn’t seek validation. That doesn’t need to be right, to be praised, or even to be seen. It simply stays — grounded, open, unflinching in its honesty and unwavering in its compassion.

Korach’s downfall wasn’t that he yearned for holiness. It was that he mistook ambition for truth. He wrapped his ego in the language of virtue, convinced himself he was fighting for justice — and lost sight of the very light he claimed to defend. In the process, he fractured a people, and undid himself.

Real leadership — whether in a community, a classroom, or a family — looks very different. It doesn’t disguise control as care. It doesn’t cloak insecurity in theology. It shows up quietly, with humility. It speaks truth not to overpower, but to uplift. It draws boundaries, but never to exile. It listens — even when it hurts.

Moshe and Aharon never clung to titles. They didn’t guard their image. When challenged, they didn’t posture. They prayed. They pleaded. They wept. And when the storm passed, they returned to love — to guiding with gentleness, to holding space, to showing up even when hearts were still raw.

That is the invitation of Parshat Korach: to examine the places where ego still masquerades as righteousness. To notice when the need to be right silences the call to be kind. To catch ourselves when concern becomes control, when boundaries become exile, when pride borrows the voice of holiness.

And to choose the deeper strength — the strength of presence. Of humility. Of love that doesn’t retreat in the face of rupture, but listens more deeply, waits more patiently, and trusts that even what seems lifeless may one day bloom.

Even from a staff that once looked long dead.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar