Then Balak said to Balaam, “What have you done to me? Here I brought you to damn my enemies, and instead you have blessed them!”
Bamidbar 23:11
When Moshe wrote the story of Bilam in the Torah—dictated to him by God—he must have been astounded. The incident, in which Balak, king of Moav, sought to curse Israel through the prophet Bilam, happened far from the Israelite camp. The delegation of Moabite princes, the Divine refusals and permissions, the speaking donkey, and the forced blessings instead of curses—all of it occurred hundreds of kilometers away and remained hidden from Moshe and the people until much later.
Why then is this story told at all, and in such detail? The danger had been averted. Bilam’s attempted curse never materialized. And even if it had, what effect would it have had? Only God can truly curse or bless.
Yet the Torah devotes an entire parashah to an event that no one knew about until long after the fact. Why?
The silence of thirty-eight years
More perplexing is when this episode occurred. According to the Torah’s timeline, there was a gap of thirty-eight years between the rebellion of Korach and the death of Miriam. In that time, nearly nothing is reported. Rashi, commenting on Vayikra 1:2, states that, indeed, as a result of the sin of the spies, God did not speak to Moshe for thirty-eight years.[1]
We cannot fathom the implications of this. There was no prophecy, no sign of Divine presence.[2] The people wandered in bewilderment, unsure of their fate, convinced perhaps that the Exodus had failed. God had become a Deus absconditus—an absent God.
Due to the sin of the spies, God had decided that nobody who had left Egypt would enter the Land of Israel. The Tosafot records a chilling midrash on this: Every year, on the Ninth of Av the Israelites would dig their own graves, lie down in them, and wait. In the morning, a voice would call out, “Let the living separate from the dead.” Finally, in the fortieth year, no one died. At first they assumed they had miscalculated. They were too traumatized to hope. Only when the full moon appeared did they realize that the decree had been lifted.[3]
These were years of hopelessness and horror. A whole generation died in the desert. Moshe must have wondered if the Exodus had been in vain. Perhaps, in those years, many came to believe that God did not exist at all.
Divine silence versus Divine commotion
And yet, even as the Israelites were facing this Divine silence, hundreds of kilometers away, God was speaking to the prophet Bilam. Remarkably, the Sages suggest that Bilam may even have been a greater prophet than Moshe.[4]
Bilam had been hired by Balak, the king of Moav, to curse the Israelites as they traversed the desert. A curse would not have been difficult to actualize—the desert held hazards and terrors enough even without it. But try as he might, Bilam could not manage it. In the end, his curse was replaced by a blessing.
The irony is striking: While the Israelites felt cursed and abandoned, God was forcing their enemies to bless them.
This is the heart of the matter. Only much later, when God commanded Moshe to write the story of Bilam, did the people learn the truth, that while they experienced Divine absence, God had in fact been highly active on their behalf—but elsewhere.
The paradox of Hester Panim?
What does it mean for God to be “absent”? In strict monotheism, Divine absence is impossible. God is eternal and omnipresent. To say He has “disappeared” is a contradiction.
Rather, Hester Panim—the hiding of God’s face—means that God refrains from direct intervention. Events seem to unfold on their own, without any obvious miracles or challenges to the normal course of nature. But in reality, God remains deeply involved.
The Israelites could not perceive this involvement—but it was happening nonetheless. While silence prevailed in the desert, Divine activity flourished in Moav. There was absence on one side and Divine commotion on the other—simultaneously.
This paradox is essential to understanding all of Jewish history. At moments when God seems utterly absent, His presence may be revealed somewhere else.
During the Holocaust, miracles occurred amid the horror. Some miraculously escaped gas chambers. Others found strength and faith in impossible conditions. Divine intervention flickered, briefly, in a sea of devastation.
In recent Israeli history—including the current 2025 war with Iran and Hamas—we see this again. The government, fearing tens of thousands of casualties, prepared mass graves. Yet they were not needed. Pilots flew unchallenged across enemy skies, risking everything—and returned safely. Their missions succeeded against all odds.
And yet, in Gaza, lives are lost. Soldiers and civilians are dying. There is both Hester Panim and Giluy Panim—Divine concealment and Divine revelation—side by side.
A story of faith and paradox
The story of Bilam teaches us that Divine absence is never absolute. Nor is there ever complete Divine intervention with no effort on the part of human beings. God’s presence is unevenly distributed in history. Some experience miracles. Others encounter silence.
This is a painful but vital truth. In the moment of crisis—when one asks, “Where is God?”—the answer may lie just out of sight. While we suffer in the here and now, elsewhere blessing unfolds.
Sometimes we Jews trade in open miracles, at other times in terrifying Divine absence.
In our private lives, we may feel that our lives are guided and encouraged by a Divine hand, while at other times we may feel completely abandoned. Sometimes we may even feel both simultaneously.
The fact that Bilam, despite his free will, was compelled to bless rather than curse, underscores this mystery. It reveals the paradox of human freedom and Divine control. Man speaks, yet God may override his words. Even curses may become blessings.
Living with this awareness is not easy. It demands faith of the highest order—the ability to see, or at least believe in, God’s hand even in tragedy. Only a few of us achieve this. Most of us waver between faith and doubt. The greatness—and tragedy—of humanity is that we exist suspended between these poles.
Albert Camus, the French philosopher, once wrote, “I do not believe in God, but I am not an atheist.” This enigmatic statement reflects the human tension between yearning for transcendence and confronting a world that often denies it.
But perhaps the ultimate test of our relationship with God is not whether we seek His kindness—but whether we seek Him.
Notes
[1] Rashi on Vayikra 1:1–2. See also Seder Olam Rabbah, chap. 8.
[2] It would appear that the daily supply of the manna was taken for granted as a natural occurrence.
[3] Tosafot on Ta’anit 30b, s.v. “ad”. This midrashic tradition describes the ritual of grave-digging during the thirty-eight years of desert wandering.
[4] See Bamidbar Rabbah 14:20. Bilam’s prophetic level may have rivaled or even exceeded that of Moshe in certain ways.
Questions to Ponder
- Rabbi Cardozo notes that while the Israelites experienced thirty-eight years of Divine silence, God was actively protecting them elsewhere.
- What does this suggest about the limits of human perception in judging God’s presence or absence?
- How does the knowledge that God may be “working elsewhere” affect the way we understand unanswered prayers? Does it comfort—or disturb—you?
- If God was intervening on Israel’s behalf through Bilam while remaining silent to Moshe, was the silence itself a form of punishment—or part of a larger pedagogical process?
- The essay suggests that Divine presence is unevenly distributed in history. Is this compatible with the idea of a just God? Should justice require symmetry?
- Why do you think the Torah preserves the story of Bilam in such detail, rather than allowing Israel to live with the illusion that nothing threatened them? Is it spiritually healthier to know about hidden dangers that were averted—or to live unaware of them? Does hindsight strengthen or weaken faith?
- The essay draws parallels between Bilam’s story and moments in Jewish history such as the Holocaust and modern Israeli wars.
- Is it legitimate to identify “miracles” amid catastrophe—or does that risk trivializing suffering? Can Hester Panim ever be morally justified?
- At what point does Divine concealment become unbearable—or theologically unacceptable?
- Rabbi Cardozo suggests that the true test is not whether we seek God’s kindness, but whether we seek God Himself. What might it mean to seek God when there is no comfort, no clarity, and no visible response?
- Do you believe faith requires interpreting events as meaningful—or is faith sometimes the refusal to interpret at all?
