This week’s parsha tells the interesting story of the pagan prophet, Bil’am. Frightened by the approach of the Jewish people as they near the Land of Israel, Balak and the other Kings of Moav and Midian hire Bil’am to curse the Jewish people – “Now, please go and curse for me this nation, for it is too mighty for me; perhaps I will prevail, smite them, and drive them from the land…”.

Bil’am takes the job, but, again and again, try as he might, his curses are turned by God into blessings: each and every time he tries to curse the Israelites, God miraculously puts the most beautiful poetry into his mouth, in which he praises the people Israel.

I have always felt that there is a bit of a strange game going on here. After all, God could, I imagine, allow Bil’am to curse the Jewish people to his heart’s content, and then simply ignore his words, or he could he could kill him, or turn him into a toad, or something. Why make such a big deal out of his words? Why does God seem to believe that what comes out of Bil’am’s mouth is important, and, therefore, He must perform this playful miracle of fooling around with what Bil’am says so that it comes out good for the Jews?

It occurs to me that if we discount the supernatural nature of a curse or a blessing, whatever that may or may not be, we are taught an interesting lesson about the power of the spoken word. Were Bil’am to successfully condemn the Jewish people, were he to curse and revile them, those words would have power: the Jews who heard them would be disheartened, the Midianites who heard them would be encouraged; the atmosphere, the balance, between these people would be effected, subtle and not-so-subtle psychological changes would take place, which would, apparently, weaken the Israelites and strengthen their enemies.

If, on the other hand, Bil’am himself, prophet of Midian and Moav, heaps praises on the Jewish people, proclaiming “mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov…” – “How goodly are thy tents, Yaakov, and thy tabernacles, oh Israel” – that, too, has an effect; demoralizing the already nervous Midianites, and strengthening the resolve of the Jews. The crucial thing here is the mystery of the power of the spoken word. Why, as children, do we cry when we are called nasty names? Why does the wrong word at the wrong time have the strength to end a relationship, or the right one, to ignite it? Why am I still embarrassed when I think of certain things I said in high school (and yesterday)? Why does it still hurt, or feel good, to remember things that people said to me years ago? The power of speech, which, perhaps, is precisely that which makes us human, is awesome; words are the strongest things there are; words, being the way we understand and explain our existence, are what we are.

Allowing Bil’am to curse the Jewish people would have done us irreparable damage, would have changed something forever; miraculously wringing these blessings from him gives us encouragement that we still take strength from today. As I was writing this, I could not help but think of the language that is so often used against Israel, and the Jewish people, today; the unbelievably vicious, sick, nature of so much of what is said against us; the 1984-like quality to the curses and accusations that are so often heaped upon us by some. I realize that these words, as much as one tries to discount their importance, to laugh them off, do have an effect: they weaken us, they hurt us.

Like the curses Bil’am tried to hurl against the ancient people of Israel, these modern-day curses, like all spoken words, have real power; the power to poison the minds and hearts of those who are unfortunate enough to hear them, and, perhaps even more tragically, of those who thoughtlessly mouth them.