Dust that matters

Life can feel heavy sometimes. Between the noise of the world, personal struggles, and everything going on around us, it’s easy to feel small, even invisible—like we don’t really matter. We wonder: Does anyone see me? Does what I do even make a difference? The Torah gives us a powerful answer—through the words of someone who didn’t even want to say them. A man who came to curse the Jewish people ended up revealing one of the deepest truths about who we are, why we matter, and just how strong that connection with G-d really is.

This week we read the story of Bilaam. He was a prophet hired by Balak, the king of Moab, to curse the Jewish people. That was his whole job—stand on a mountain, look down at the Jewish camp, and say something negative.

But when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t do it. Instead of curses, blessings came out.

One of the first things Bilaam says is: “How can I curse someone that G-d hasn’t cursed?” Basically, he’s saying: “If G-d isn’t angry at the Jewish people, how do you expect me to be?”

Then he explains what he sees in the Jews that makes them so strong: “From the top of the rocks I see them, from the hills I behold them.” What’s he talking about?

He’s saying the Jews are solid—like rocks and hills. You can’t move them. They come from strong roots: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sara, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. That strength is still holding them up, generation after generation.

Then Bilaam says something that sounds kind of strange: “Who can count the dust of Jacob?” It sounds like he’s saying there are just so many Jews, like dust—you can’t even count them.

But there’s more to it.

Rashi, the primary Torah commentator, offers two ideas:

First, the “dust” means the little Jewish children, loved by G-d not because they know anything or do much, but just because they’re His kids. Like a father who picks up his toddler and hugs him just for being there.

It’s a love that doesn’t depend on anything. It’s not about how smart you are or how religious you are. It’s just love, plain and simple. G-d looks at every Jew, even the one who struggles, who’s confused, who feels far, and says, “That’s my child.”

The second idea is that “dust” refers to the mitzvahs that involve the ground—like laws relating to farming and forbidden mixtures. But deeper than that, dust means humility. It means doing mitzvahs even when you don’t get them. Like someone saying, “I may not understand it, but I’m doing it because G-d asked me to.”

It’s not about being inspired or feeling something powerful. It’s about showing up. Doing the right thing because it’s the right thing. That’s what “dust” means—quiet, steady, humble.

So what Bilaam is really saying is that the Jewish people are protected because of two things:

G-d’s love — like a parent’s love for a little child, no strings attached.

The mitzvahs we do—even the small ones, even when we don’t understand, done with simple faith.

Put those two together, and you get something unbreakable. That’s why Bilaam couldn’t curse us. No matter how much he tried, he was facing something too deep and too strong.

Especially today, when the world feels so uncertain and our people face so many challenges, when Jews do something small—light Shabbat candles, wrap tefillin, give a coin to tzedakah—it matters. It’s like dust: maybe not flashy, but powerful in a quiet way.

And even when someone feels like they’re “nothing special,” like just dust on the ground, G-d says, “That’s exactly why I love you.” Because deep down, you’re mine. And that never changes.

That’s the strength of the Jewish people: not fame, not perfection—but a bond nothing, not even a curse, can break.