Photo Gary Moreton-Jones (on unsplash) I may have gone a bit overboard, what with striking poses and brandishing my tool before the poor frightened ass, making her speak truth to the bigger ass that is her master and who sees nothing, but I could not resist; I am a dramaturge at heart. He is a sneaky one, that Balaam. (You did catch the problem in his behaviour, did you not?) It is my job to let him know that we are not fooled, and to make him confront his deceitfulness. To that end I wave the sword in his face, but the ass protects him by swerving out of the way. What a loyal soul, and righteous, too, loudly protesting the beating she gets as a reward from her still-unseeing master. I open Balaam's eyes and explain matters, and I truly believe he finally gets the point when, having twice reluctantly blessed the Israelites, as God commands, he seems enraptured by the vision of their encampment: “How goodly your tents, O Jacob, / your dwellings, O Israel! / Like palm groves they
Just what it says: a little midrash, a filling in of some of the lacunae Torah leaves in the lives of its characters. The stories lay no claim to being right, but they do explore what is possible. Texts don't sit still long enough to have fixed meanings; too often we assume that Torah is done and finished. It is never finished.