The Song of the Outsider: Truth from Many Sources

How an Ancient Canaanite Poem Became a Jewish Teaching on War, Ethics, and the Power of the Outsider

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In Parshat Chukat grief and glory, ritual and rebellion all collide. It opens with the enigmatic laws of the Parah Adumah—the red heifer, whose ashes purify those made impure by contact with death. And then, death saturates the Parsha: we lose both Miriam and Aaron, the siblings of Moshe. Miriam’s passing brings with it the loss of water, while Aaron’s death marks a transition of priestly leadership to his son Elazar. Moshe himself is told he will not enter the Promised Land, after striking the rock instead of speaking to it as God commanded.

Throughout, the Israelites face hostile nations as they continue their desert journey. They seek peaceful passage through Edom and are refused. They are attacked by the Canaanites and later by the Amorites. They respond with conquest, not for its own sake, but with measured defense—and, with God’s aid, emerge victorious.

And then, at the height of these conflicts, comes a strange detour: a song. A Canaanite war poem is quoted in the Torah itself. That’s where I found myself most captivated this week—and that’s where we now turn.

From inner.org by Imry GalEinai

A Foreign Song in a Sacred Text

In this week's parsha, the Israelites ask for safe passage through various occupied territories, and one of those territories is the land of Sihon. Instead of allowing them to pass through, Sihon gathered all his troops and went out against Israel in the wilderness. He came to Jahaz and engaged Israel in battle (Numbers 21:23).

The Israelites win the battle, and took possession of their land (Numbers 21:24), and then the Torah includes something entirely unexpected. It seemingly interrupts its narrative of the Jews travelling into Israel to quote what appears to be an ancient war song of Sihon:

“Therefore the moshlim (bards) say:

Come to Heshbon! Let it be built and established as the city of Sihon.

For fire went forth from Heshbon, flame from the city of Sihon.

It consumed Ar of Moab, the lords of Bamot-Arnon.

Woe to you, Moab! You are undone, people of Chemosh!

He has given his sons as fugitives, his daughters into captivity to Sihon king of the Amorites.

Yet we have cast them down utterly, Heshbon along with Dibon;

We have wrought desolation at Nophah, which is hard by Medeba.”

(Numbers 21:27–30)

Why would the Torah quote a Canaanite song glorifying a foreign king’s conquest of Moab? What lesson could possibly lie within the poetry of Israel’s enemies?

The answer has multiple parts, which is why it is so beautiful and impressive. It teaches us that truth is not owned by only one nation, that moral legitimacy matters in war, and that within history one can find divine providence. Most importantly, it teaches that a foreign poem, properly read, can speak volumes.

Truth from Beyond

The Sages of the Talmud read this verse the way I was taught to read poetry: finding far more beneath the surface. In Bava Batra 78b, they took the words “Bo’u Heshbon”--”Come to Heshbon”-- and transformed them from a military rallying cry into an ethical rule. “Come and make a Heshbon Hanefesh,” they explained, an accounting of your soul. Consider your deeds, weigh the cost of wrongdoing against the reward of righteousness.

From this ancient poem, the fundamental Jewish idea of a Heshbon Hanefesh, or soul accounting, was born. From the fires of conquest, the Sages saw the value in still introspection. A foreign poem became a Jewish values teaching. It is a striking example of rabbinic creativity.

From this teaching based in the writings of other cultures, Rabbi Sacks learns that “God’s word is not confined to our echo chambers.” Revelation is not a closed system. Even the language of strangers can be transformed into Torah. That the Torah quotes a non-Israelite poem is not an accident –it's a lesson. Truth can come from outside our tradition. Sometimes the words of the outsider carry divine insight, and we would be remiss to exclude it.

Reader Challenge: Where Did You Learn That?

This week, I invite you to pause and reflect on one or two moral teachings that have shaped the way you live. Not just the values you know about, but the ones that live in your bones—the ideas you return to when making tough decisions, offering guidance, or finding strength.

Now ask yourself:
Where did I learn this? Who or what taught it to me? And where did they get it from?

The wisdom we carry often has deep roots, and sometimes those roots reach into traditions beyond our own. To illustrate, here are a few moral teachings with origins in various cultures:

• Ahimsa – nonviolence in thought, word, and deed.
  – A core principle in Hinduism, Jainism, and Buddhism, emphasizing radical compassion even toward one’s enemies.

• Ubuntu – “I am because we are.”
  – A Southern African ethical philosophy that centers community, shared humanity, and mutual responsibility.

• “Speak only if it improves upon the silence.”
  – Often attributed to Sufi or Buddhist thought, this teaches the power and restraint of mindful speech.

• “The best of people are those who are most beneficial to others.”
  – A Hadith from Islamic tradition, emphasizing service and altruism.

Now it’s your turn.
What is a moral or ethical value that has deeply impacted you? Can you trace where it came from—whether from family, schooling, faith, philosophy, literature, or life experience?

Feel free to reply and share. I’d love to hear the stories behind your guiding principles—and how they’ve shown up in your life.

Justice Before Might

This poem offers another layer, one profoundly relevant today. In Deuteronomy 2:9, God commands Israel not to attack Moab. And yet here in Numbers, Israel occupies land that once belonged to Moab. How can that be?

The poem itself explains: Sihon had conquered Moabite territory. Israel did not attack Moab—they fought Sihon. The Torah includes this poem to demonstrate that Israel did not violate divine instruction.

But it goes further. The text makes a moral point, not just a legal one. Throughout Parshat Chukat, Israel does not initiate violence. They ask Edom for peaceful passage and withdraw when refused. They are attacked by the Amorites—and only then do they respond. The Torah insists that in war, there are rules. There is restraint. There is justice.

Divine Unfolding

This principle goes back to Genesis 15, when God tells Abraham the land of the Amorites will not be given to the Jewish people, “until the iniquity of the Amorites is complete.” That is to say, the land will not be taken from the Amorites without just cause. There had to have been sufficient moral collapse.

Here, in the poem, we see what that iniquity looked like. In their own words they say, “Fire went forth from Heshbon…it consumed Ar of Moab…Chemosh gave his children into captivity.” We are given a snapshot of a kingdom proud of their violence and cruelty – burning cities, exiling people, taking captives, and then singing about it.

The Torah may have included this poem to show that the Amorites themselves, in their own words and cultural expressions, bear witness to their injustice. The poem then is not only a historical record it is a moral indictment. Their rhetoric condemns them.

The Torah in that light frames this as the unfolding of a divine timeline. The Amorites had filled their measure. The divine promise to Abraham can now be meted out through history.

In Rabbi Sacks’ words, history is “morally structured.” It may take generations, it may work through the free choices of nations, but ultimately – righteousness and cruelty are weighed. In that weighing, destinies shift.

The Voice Before the Name

And then there is the literary brilliance of it all. In the ancient Near East, poets—especially those who composed war songs—were seen as wielders of spiritual power. Their words were believed to influence reality. The Midrash tells us that the poets in this week’s Parsha– the moshlim – were none other than Balaam and his father Beor.

If we read this song with that knowledge, it becomes steeped in irony – a curse, uttered by Balaam, empowers Sihon to conquer Moab. Those words then allow the Israelites to take the land, as they would have been prevented from fighting Moab. And it foreshadows next week’s Parsha, when Balaam is hired to curse Israel, but his power, which was once effective, will be rendered impotent by God.

The Torah introduces us to Balaam not with a name, but with a voice. His words precede him, casting a shadow before his arrival. The poem is both setup and undoing. The poem celebrates Sihon’s fiery conquest, perhaps empowered by Balaam’s incantation, and yet, by the end of the chapter, Israel has defeated Sihon. This week, Balaam’s first curse is extinguished. It is subtle, masterful foreshadowing.

One Song, Four Messages

So in this brief passage – four verses, less than a stanza – of text pulled from another nation - we are given four overlapping circles of meaning.

1. Ethical Wisdom: The call to self-reflection, to do a moral accounting

2. Moral Legitimacy: A justification for war only when attacked, and only of certain nations

3. Prophetic Irony: Balaam’s rise, and the setup for his fall

4. Theology of Openness: The Torah draws truth from all corners of human experience

I am so proud to be a spiritual inheritor of this brilliantly interwoven text—one that combines history with ethics, literary nuance with moral vision.

What Do We Do With This Now?

We live in a time when war is again being waged in our name. The justifications, the heartbreak, the fury, and the fear—they all swirl in the air. And many of us are left asking: What does it mean to be part of a people who fight, who suffer, who are attacked, and who defend? What does it mean to read a Torah that includes battles, poems of conquest, and declarations of divine justice—when we are watching history unfold in real time?

Parshat Chukat offers us a framework.

It reminds us that war, even when necessary, must be governed by morality. That being attacked does not strip us of our ethical obligations. That history is not just a sequence of victories and defeats, but a divine unfolding of justice. And most radically, it reminds us that truth is not always found in the places we expect—that sometimes, our greatest teachings come from beyond our borders, from voices we might have ignored.

The Torah does not glorify violence. It critiques it. It demands a Heshbon Hanefesh—a moral reckoning—not just of individuals, but of nations.

So this week, I’m asking myself: What songs am I listening to? Whose stories am I allowing to shape my understanding of justice and mercy, of power and restraint? Where have I failed to make space for truth because it came from a voice I didn't want to hear?

And maybe more importantly: How do I live as a Jew—not just in ritual and pride—but in integrity and humility, in a world that needs both now more than ever?

This ancient text, through a stanza of foreign poetry, hands us a blueprint. It challenges us to hold fast to our ethics even in the fog of war. It teaches us that our power, if not tempered by justice, becomes our downfall. And it urges us to listen—deeply, courageously—to the truths spoken even by those outside our camp.

We are still walking through a wilderness. And the songs we choose to echo may well shape what kind of people we become on the other side.

May we be blessed with eyes that see truth, even when it comes from unexpected places, and may we recognize in that truth not just a story of the past, but a compass for our present.

Wishing you all my best,
Miriam

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