Parshat Balak: You Can’t Curse What God Has BlessedHow Labels Obscure the Soul — and Why Parents Must Protect the Blessing

When Words Become Weapons

The story of Parshat Balak begins not on a battlefield, but in the quiet space where perception breeds fear. Balak, king of Moav, watches the Israelites advancing and becomes unnerved — not because they’ve threatened him, but simply because they exist. “They cover the eye of the land,” he says. He feels eclipsed, destabilized. Their presence alone becomes a threat.

But instead of preparing for war, Balak turns to a more insidious strategy: he seeks to neutralize their power through speech. He summons Bilam, a prophet-for-hire whose reputation lies not in military strength, but in articulation. Bilam is believed to wield words the way others wield weapons — shaping reality through curse and command. His task is simple: speak them into diminishment.

But something extraordinary happens. Bilam opens his mouth to curse — and fails. Again and again, his attempts collapse into blessing. “How can I curse whom God has not cursed?” he asks, as if startled by the truth spilling from his lips. And finally, he utters what has become one of the most beloved verses in Jewish liturgy: “Ma tovu ohalecha Yaakov” — How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob. The prophet hired to condemn becomes the mouthpiece for affirmation. The voice intended to invalidate ends up revealing holiness.

This isn’t just a theological drama. It’s an emotional mirror for many parents. Because even now, though we no longer call in prophets, we still use words in ways that shape reality — not always maliciously, but often carelessly, systemically, and socially. A teen begins to struggle — emotionally, religiously, or behaviorally — and language rushes in — not just to describe, but to explain, define, and contain. Terms like “at-risk,” “off the derech,” “emotionally unstable,” or “defiant” are spoken as if they describe something fixed and final. And once those words are uttered — whispered in staff rooms, included in reports, muttered at Shabbat tables — they begin to do their work. They don’t just describe. They define.

And definitions, once spoken, have consequences. They influence how schools respond, how peers interact, how opportunities are withheld, and perhaps most painfully, how even loving parents begin to see their own child. A label can cast a long shadow — not just over potential, but over presence. Over the sense that change is possible. Over the belief that the story is still unfolding.

But Parshat Balak stands as a divine rebuttal. It reminds us that there are identities too sacred to be overwritten — that the soul is not up for redefinition by others, by systems, or even by the child’s own struggle. What God has blessed cannot be cursed. Not by a prophet. Not by a principal. Not by a diagnosis. Not even by a moment of rebellion or despair. Beneath the behavior, beneath the label, beneath the ache — the soul remains whole.

For parents walking this path, that’s not a poetic consolation. It’s a spiritual directive. A call to remember — especially when others forget — that your child’s essence is not defined by their pain. That no matter how convincing the curse, the blessing came first. And it still holds.

When Words Become Worlds: The Spiritual Mechanics of Speech

At the heart of Parshat Balak lies a radical truth: language is not neutral. Bilam was not summoned to analyze the Israelites. He was summoned to shape their fate through speech. In the Torah’s spiritual psychology, words do not merely describe — they create. As we say each morning, “Baruch she’amar v’hayah ha’olam” — God spoke, and the world came into being. Divine speech is generative. And human speech, as a reflection of that divine image, carries a sliver of that same power.

That’s why Bilam’s failure to curse is not just a narrative twist — it’s a cosmic assertion. The Torah treats language as action. Lashon hara isn’t just rude; it’s spiritually destructive. A bracha isn’t merely kind; it’s a channel through which blessing flows. Bilam’s curses, had they succeeded, could have inflicted real damage — emotionally, socially, and metaphysically. But each time he tries to curse, the words transform into blessing. Because when a soul is aligned with the Divine, distortion cannot attach.

The implications are not ancient — they’re immediate. Because even today, our words shape the spiritual atmosphere our children live in. When a child begins to struggle — with emotion, behavior, or belief — language rushes in to contain it. Terms like “at-risk,” “off the derech,” “emotionally unstable,” or “defiant” are spoken not as observations, but as verdicts. And once said — whispered in staff rooms, included in psych reports, muttered at Shabbat tables — they begin to take root. They don’t just describe. They define. They become the air the child breathes.

This is where Chassidut offers a path of resistance. The Sfat Emet (Balak 5643) explains that Bilam failed not because he lacked verbal force, but because he lacked spiritual alignment. His intent was corrupt. His words, rooted in ego, could not touch truth. “Only when speech emerges from the depth of one’s soul — from a place of holiness — can it reveal hidden good.” Because he was not speaking from emet — sincerity, humility, and soul — his words were overridden.

The Me’or Einayim (R’ Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl) takes this further. He teaches that Israel’s essence is rooted in ayin — the pre-verbal, super-conscious source of being. You cannot curse what emerges from ayin because it does not depend on external form. Even when a person struggles in behavior, even when speech falters or disappears altogether, their shoresh haneshamah — their soul-root — remains whole.

And so, for a parent, this isn’t just theology. It’s guidance. A teen may no longer “speak the language” of Torah. They may stop davening, reject mitzvot, or fall silent. But those are shifts in expression, not essence. The place their soul comes from — that deep root of belonging and holiness — is still untouched. The words we speak about them must reach that place. Not just commentary on behavior, but recognition of who they are underneath.

This is why the Chassidic masters treated dibur — speech — with such reverence. The Shem MiShmuel (Balak 5670) writes that Bilam’s words failed not only because of divine intervention, but because his vessel — his speech — was unfit to carry truth. Speech can only bless when it is clean of ego. And when it is aligned with emunah — deep belief in the soul’s goodness — it becomes a vehicle for redemption.

In Chabad thought, this becomes foundational. The Tanya (Iggeret HaKodesh 11) teaches that ko’ach ha’dibur — the power of speech — bridges the hidden and the revealed. What we name, we begin to form. What we label, we give shape to. When a parent says, “She’s always been difficult,” or “He just doesn’t care anymore,” they may believe they’re describing — but in truth, they’re constructing. They are narrowing the emotional and spiritual space in which the soul can safely grow.

But the inverse is also true. The Midrash (Bereshit Rabbah 60:3) teaches, “Tzadik gozer v’HaKadosh Baruch Hu mekayem” — a righteous person decrees, and God fulfills. And perhaps the most righteous act a parent can perform is to speak blessing where others see brokenness. When a parent says, “This is not the end of your story,” or “You are still wanted,” or “There is more to you than this moment,” they are not just comforting — they are invoking something into being. They are creating space for the soul to return.

This, too, is prophecy. Not the kind that sees the future, but the kind that refuses to give up on it. The kind that says: I will not define you by your symptoms. I will not reduce you to your pain. I will align my speech with your essence — even if you’ve forgotten it yourself.

And that is the deeper message of Parshat Balak. That even the most sophisticated attempt to curse — to reduce, to label, to distort — will falter in the presence of essence. The blessing is not earned. It is embedded in the soul’s design. And the words we speak, when aligned with that truth, can help bring that design back into view.

The Cost of Naming the Wrong Story

Labels don’t gain power because they’re accurate. They gain power because they’re repeated. A child is described as “difficult,” “rebellious,” “off the derech,” or “emotionally unstable” — and soon that language takes on a life of its own. Teachers begin to approach with caution. Classmates keep their distance. Community members whisper. And perhaps most damaging of all, the child begins to internalize the story being told about them.

This is not just social — it’s spiritual. Chassidut teaches that the language we use to describe another human being does more than reflect reality; it shapes it. Words create a climate. They signal what is expected and what is permitted. When we name a child through the lens of fear, disappointment, or judgment, we compress their identity. We speak not to their essence but to a distortion of their behavior — and in doing so, we trap them inside the very story they are struggling to escape.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that every soul, no matter how far it strays, contains within it a nekudah tovah — a point of irreducible goodness. That point may be hidden beneath layers of pain, anger, or resistance, but it is never erased. The task of the educator, the parent, and the community is not to impose goodness, but to reveal it — to draw it out through love, curiosity, and faith. When we curse — even unintentionally, through dismissive language or quiet despair — we don’t destroy the soul. But we bury it. We add noise around the signal. We obscure what should be illuminated.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin (Tzidkat HaTzadik 44) deepens this idea in striking terms. He writes that the very fact that a soul experiences descent — that it enters into darkness, confusion, or spiritual collapse — is itself a signal of hidden greatness. “The greater the soul,” he says, “the deeper the concealment through which it must pass in order to uncover its true light.” The breakdown is not the disproof of holiness — it’s the prelude to revelation. Struggle is not evidence of deficiency. It is often the fingerprint of a soul whose mission requires navigating terrain others cannot.

But for that potential ascent to unfold, the soul must be seen. Not analyzed. Not diagnosed. Seen. Held in vision, not reduced to symptoms. That kind of seeing is incompatible with labeling — because a label doesn’t just describe; it replaces. It becomes shorthand for complexity. It settles the question of who this child is before their journey has even had a chance to unfold. Once a child becomes “the problem” — in the classroom, at home, or in their own self-image — it becomes harder for anyone, including the child themselves, to imagine a different future.

This is where many parents find themselves stuck. A child begins to pull away, act out, or shut down — and fear floods in. With fear comes interpretation: She’s rejecting everything we taught her. He just doesn’t care anymore. She’s so oppositional. He’s just lazy. But what if those interpretations are wrong? What if what looks like defiance is actually pain? What if silence is not indifference, but exhaustion? What if “not caring” is a defense against caring too much?

The Torah warns us, gently but firmly: do not confuse behavior with essence. Do not take your child’s worst moment and use it as a template for their identity. Do not let the urgency to explain lead you to the error of collapse — of shrinking the soul down to what is visible. Because if you do — if you name your child by their pain — you risk becoming a Bilam in your own home: someone who speaks from fear, from woundedness, from disappointment, and in doing so, attempts to reduce what cannot be reduced.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

The same mouth that labels can bless. The same parent who once panicked can learn to see with deeper eyes. The same story that once seemed broken can become a source of strength. But that shift begins not in the child — it begins in the narrator. When a parent refuses to collapse the soul into a label, when they insist on seeing the nekudah tovah through all the noise, they don’t just protect their child. They protect the story that still wants to be told.

Because the story isn’t over — unless we decide to stop telling it.

What It Means to Protect the Blessing

The most radical truth of Parshat Balak is not that Bilam fails — it’s how he fails. A man whose entire craft was the manipulation of language, whose spiritual expertise lay in locating vulnerability and weaponizing words, opens his mouth to curse — and ends up blessing. Not once, but repeatedly. Why? Because the object of his speech — the people of Israel — is too sacred to distort. He cannot reach their essence. The blessing is not earned by merit. It is not conditional on behavior. It is embedded by design.

This is more than theological poetry. It is the spiritual blueprint of parenting.

Because if the soul cannot be cursed — if its inner worth is God-given, not behavior-dependent — then the role of a parent is not to confer value, but to protect it. Not to constantly assess whether their child deserves blessing, but to preserve the atmosphere in which that blessing can still be seen, felt, and believed — especially by a child who no longer sees it in themselves.

To protect the blessing means to root your gaze in essence, not in performance. It means you respond to the soul, even when others are reacting to symptoms. You don’t deny the struggle, but you refuse to collapse your child’s identity into it. You say things like: “This isn’t the real you.” “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” “You are not your behavior — you are someone in pain.” These are not just comforting phrases. They are acts of spiritual preservation — the kind that keep the soul tethered to dignity when everything else is unraveling.

Protecting the blessing also means knowing which voices to take seriously — and which to let pass. Parents are often surrounded by experts: school staff, therapists, friends, community members — each with their own view of what’s wrong, what’s needed, what must be done. Some of that guidance is wise and valuable. But none of it replaces your role. You are the only one who holds the whole story — the before, the during, and the not-yet. You are the only one who knows the child beneath the collapse. And when that memory is fused with faith, it becomes prophetic.

The world may rush to judgment. Systems may panic. Labels may accumulate. But you stay steady. You remember process when others see failure. You choose connection where others reach for control. You hold vision when others shrink into prognosis. You don’t let a crisis define the child. You don’t surrender the narrative of the soul.

And sometimes, that is the highest form of parenting there is. Not fixing. Not strategizing. Not even solving. Just standing firm in the face of confusion — and protecting the truth when others forget it. Refusing to let a temporary descent erase an eternal blessing. Becoming the one steady gaze in a sea of reaction — the one who says, even silently: “I see you. You are still whole.”

This, too, is prophecy. Not the kind that predicts the future — but the kind that refuses to forget the past and the soul at its center. The kind that says: what God has blessed, no system, no behavior, no momentary spiral — not even the child themselves — can curse.

From Labels to Longing — A Shift in Vision

At the end of Parshat Balak, Bilam delivers what, at first glance, seems like the highest praise: “Behold, a nation that dwells alone, and is not counted among the nations.” On the surface, it sounds like a celebration of spiritual distinctiveness — a people with a unique mission, set apart for a higher purpose. But Rashi, quoting Chazal, offers a sobering reframe: this statement carries a double edge. It is not only admiration — it is alienation. Bilam highlights their separateness to estrange them further. The line masquerades as blessing, but its goal is isolation.

And here, a final, painful truth emerges: not all blessings are sincere — and not all forms of belonging are holy. Sometimes what we call “inclusion” is merely condescension. Sometimes what sounds like “spiritual concern” is just discomfort dressed in religious vocabulary. And when teens sense that — when they feel their presence is being managed rather than embraced — they begin to leave. Not out of defiance. But out of longing.

Many teens who walk away from religious spaces do not do so because they hate Torah. They leave because they feel that Torah hated them first — or at least, ignored them entirely. They felt judged for what they weren’t, instead of seen for who they are. They reached out for connection and encountered critique. They needed presence, and were offered performance. And so they begin to search elsewhere — not always for truth, but for tenderness. Not necessarily for meaning, but for mercy.

This is not a rejection of holiness. It is a plea for it to be delivered differently.

The antidote is not coercion. It is not shame. It is not louder messages or stricter rules. It is reclaiming Torah as a space of blessing — a home for the soul, not a measuring stick for conformity. It is rebuilding religious life around a different core message: not “you are wrong,” but “you are wanted.”

And that shift begins not with programs or policies, but with people. With parents, teachers, and leaders who choose to see differently — who model a faith that uplifts instead of alienates. Who understand that a child’s place in the community is not earned by perfection, but granted by presence. Who say — not once, but repeatedly — you belong here. Even if you’re struggling. Even if you’re angry. Even if you’re distant.

Because exile isn’t only physical. It can happen emotionally and spiritually too. A child can be sitting in a beit midrash and still feel like they’ve been sent away. And the mission of this generation is not only to bring our children closer to mitzvot — but to bring them back from the loneliness we never meant to impose. From the silence around their questions. From the quiet judgment of their difference. From the fear that their struggle makes them unsafe to love.

And so we return to Bilam — whose prophecy ends not with clarity, but with tension. He blesses, but not purely. He praises, but not wholeheartedly. His words reveal just how easily someone can speak in spiritual terms while distancing in spirit.

Our task is the opposite. To speak in the language of belonging — and to mean it. To bless, and to believe it. To ensure that no child ever feels they are counted out of the people, even as they search for their way back in.

A Closing Blessing for the One Who Feels Cursed

If you are a parent of a child in pain, you may feel like blessings are far away. You may feel the quiet erosion of confidence — the looks, the whispers, the pauses in conversation when your child’s name comes up. You may feel the ache of silence from friends who once checked in but now don’t. You may feel judged — not only by others, but by yourself. You may wonder if you failed — or worse, if your child is failing. And in moments of exhaustion or fear, you may begin to echo the very voices you’ve tried to silence. You may catch yourself asking, “What happened to her?” “Why is he like this?” “Maybe this is just who they are now.”

But the Torah speaks louder than fear. And it says:

“Lo hibit aven b’Yaakov, v’lo ra’ah amal b’Yisrael” —God does not see iniquity in Jacob, and He does not look upon toil in Israel.

God’s gaze bypasses surface. It reaches beneath the behavior, beyond the chaos, deeper than even your child’s own self-perception. God sees essence. And so must we.

Your child is not a label. Not a problem to be fixed. Not a cautionary tale. Your child is a soul — a chelek Elokah mima’al mamash — a literal piece of the Divine. That truth does not expire when they struggle. It does not disappear when they resist you, or Torah, or themselves. It may hide. But it does not change.

And you — the one who has loved them from the beginning — may be the only one who still remembers that right now. That makes your presence sacred. Your clarity prophetic. Your attunement holy.

So hold that truth. Even when it trembles. Even when you doubt. Even when no one else sees what you see. Guard it like flame in the wind. Speak it with gentleness. Live it with steadiness. Let your home become the quiet counter-voice to every curse the world has tried to place upon your child.

Because in the end, the Torah leaves us with this truth — one that Bilam, despite himself, was compelled to speak:

What God has blessed, no one can undo.

Not the system.

Not society.

Not even the struggle.

And certainly not your child’s worst day.

They are still blessed.

Still chosen.

Still wanted.

And your belief in that — quiet, unwavering, and rooted in essence — may be the beginning of their return.

Yaakov Lazar