Parashat Korach: When the Ground Opens Up - Korach and the Cracks in Our Collective Soul

Who is Korach?

Every year, I ask myself this question as we reach this parashah. Who is Korach today? In what places, in what speeches, in what leaderships does his voice hide? Because Korach genuinely seems to seek the good of all. He speaks of justice and equality. And yet, he is severely punished. Why?

Korach’s rebellion was not a simple political dispute or a disagreement about leadership. It was an internal erosion—a crack in the soul of the people.

Korach presents himself as the voice of the people: "The entire community is holy, and the Lord is among them!" (Numbers 16:3)

But he was not speaking from truth. He spoke from ego, from personal ambition disguised as collective ideals. As Rashi explains (commenting there in Numbers 16:1), citing the Midrash Tanchuma, Korach was hurt that he had not received the leadership position he believed was rightfully his. His speech sounded inclusive, but his intention was exclusive. He didn’t seek justice—he sought the spotlight. He didn’t want leadership to serve—he wanted a throne.

That is why the earth swallowed him and his followers.

It’s a violent image, yes, but also deeply symbolic.

The earth—symbol of stability and support—opens up. When the social fabric breaks from within, there is no solid ground to stand on. The people don’t fall because of external attacks but because of internal fractures that weaken them.

The late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned us that Korach was not after justice but visibility. He added: "Populism always offers simple answers to complex problems, feeding anger rather than channeling hope."

Today, in a world flooded with seductive but ethically empty rhetoric, that warning rings loud and clear. There are those who speak in the name of the people but listen to no one. Those who wave the flag of unity only to divide. Those who present themselves as saviors but reject limits, rules, or results that don’t favor them.

They do not build—they delegitimize. They do not lead—they manipulate. They do not listen—they only hear themselves. And when confronted, they don’t respond with responsibility but with accusations. These leaders exist—both in our history and today.

Because the greatest danger did not come from outside. It wasn’t the Egyptians or Amalek. And today, it’s not only Iran or its proxy terrorist groups—Hamas, Hezbollah, the Islamic Jihad, or the Houthis. Those enemies are visible. They can be identified. They can be confronted.

The real danger—just like in Korach’s time—is when the crack comes from within.

When the purpose becomes blurred, when trust erodes from inside the people. When voices disguised as peace actually spread hatred, manipulate grief, or selectively ignore it.

Looking up and seeing that among us, in spaces once relatively peaceful and respectful of differences, there are now speeches that lead misinformed crowds, spreading hatred and destruction—is a clear sign that internal fractures are not just a biblical tale.

Israel today faces not only external enemies but also internal fractures. Political tensions, speeches disconnected from real pain, and voices that, in the name of “universal morality,” forget the kidnapped. They talk about humanity but fall silent when the victims are Jewish.

As the Netziv, Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin one of the greatest Torah commentators and rabbis of the 19th century points out, Korach’s sin was not just to question Moses but to divide the people with sweet yet destructive words. His crime was not rebellion but manipulation. And that is what hurts the most: when the danger comes from within.

How do we get out of this dangerous situation? How do we fix it?

Here is where we must look to the Torah, which from the very first chapter of Genesis has been teaching us lessons about leadership:

"And Moses heard and fell on his face" (Numbers 16:4).

He does not shout. He does not defend himself. He collapses. He listens. He waits. He prays.

As Sforno explains, Moses’ falling on his face is not a sign of defeat but of silent prayer, a mourning for what is about to break.

Moses teaches us that true leadership is not the one that imposes but the one that carries. The one who breaks inside but does not abandon. The one who doesn’t need shouting to lead or manipulation to sustain.

He doesn’t seek approval; he seeks responsibility.

Perhaps that is the greatest challenge of our time: to distinguish between those who seek the good of the people and those who use the people as an excuse for their ego. Between those who carry the weight of mourning and those who sell magical solutions without bearing the consequences.

This Shabbat, when we read about the earth opening up, let us not think only of punishment. Let us think of the warning.

When arrogance disguises itself as idealism, when the desire for the spotlight dresses up as justice, the ground disappears.

And when the ground disappears, everything else crumbles.

While we continue suffering the effects of Iran’s attacks on civilians, while an externally imposed ceasefire—neither peace nor real protection—is forced upon us, and while 50 people remain kidnapped in Gaza and soldiers fall every day, Korach’s story becomes uncomfortably familiar.

We live in complex times. The month of Tamuz begins—the month in which, historically, the fractures that led to the destruction of the Temple began. A message ultra-relevant today.

Internal fractures lead to destruction: a message for humanity, for our people, and for our small societies that are our congregations.

Let us not confuse criticism with betrayal, nor slogans with truth. Let us not forget that the building of a stronger future is one that includes and does not divide—one that sets aside false fanaticism and opens dialogue and understanding for the sake of building a better future.

Let us never forget for a moment that there is a square where thousands support 50 families with their presence, prayers, and hope.

What is broken can only begin to be repaired through authentic leadership. Leadership that does not seek glory but truth. That doesn’t need to shout to be heard. That does not manipulate morality but embodies it.

The return from the depths—from the tunnels where our brothers still remain—will not come from miracles or imposed ceasefires. It will come from the ethical strength of those willing to carry the burden, to cry, to hold firm.

And although today we live in painful cracks, tensions, mourning, and hollow words pretending to replace justice, we must not forget who we are.

The Torah itself reminds us—ironically, through the voice of the prophet hired to curse us, whom we will read about in the coming weeks:

"Behold, a people that rises like a lion cub, and lifts itself like an adult lion." “הֵן עָם כְּלָבִיא יָקוּם וְכַאֲרִי יִתְנַשֵּׂא” (Numbers 23:24).

We rise like the lavi, the young lion: with vigor and determination. We stand tall like the ari, the adult lion: with dignity and moral strength. Not from hatred but from faith. Not from cynicism but from hope. And not from ego but from responsibility.

May this Shabbat grant us a moment of calm. And may the memory of fallen soldiers and the silenced cries of the kidnapped light the way for leadership, so it does not stray from the path.

Shabbat Shalom and chodesh tov, have a meaningful Shabbat and a good month of Tammuz.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier