Words Create Worlds: What a New York Knicks legend, my mother's Shabbat prayers, and one of the Bible's strangest stories taught me about the power of speech.

One of the strangest stories in the Torah is the story of the talking donkey.

The image borders on the absurd. Bilam, hired to curse the Jewish people, is riding toward his destination when his donkey suddenly refuses to move. Unbeknownst to Bilam, the animal sees an angel blocking the road. Frustrated, Bilam strikes the donkey repeatedly until, in one of the Bible's most astonishing moments, the donkey speaks:

"Why are you hitting me?"

Even stranger, Bilam answers.

The episode feels almost surreal. Yet our sages attached enormous significance to it. In the fifth chapter of Pirkei Avot, they teach that the possibility of the donkey speaking was one of the ten extraordinary phenomena God created during the twilight between the six days of creation and Shabbat.

Why would such an unusual miracle deserve such prominence?

The answer lies in understanding what truly distinguishes a human being.

The Torah tells us that God breathed into Adam a neshamah—a divine soul. The great commentator Onkelos explains that this gift expresses itself through our capacity for speech. Human speech is more than communication. It is the outward expression of the divine image within us.

Animals communicate.

Human beings create.

With words, God brought the universe into existence. A world filled with darkness, chaos, and emptiness was transformed when God declared, "Let there be light."

Our challenge is to become partners in that same sacred work.

When we use speech to encourage, inspire, comfort, forgive, or pray, we imitate the Creator. Our words bring light into dark places.

But when we use speech to humiliate, gossip, curse, or demean another person, we abandon that divine calling.

In essence, God says to Bilam:

"If you use your God-given gift of speech only to destroy, then you are no better than a talking donkey."

The miracle is not really about an animal speaking.

It is about a human being forgetting what speech was created for.

Judaism even has a remarkable expression for corrupt speech: nivul peh—literally, "a decayed mouth." When words lose their holiness, something inside the speaker begins to decay as well.

Perhaps this message has never been more relevant than it is today.

No generation in history has possessed the power of communication that we enjoy. Within seconds, a single sentence can circle the globe. Social media allows us to speak constantly, often anonymously, frequently without reflection.

Technology has expanded our voices.

It has not necessarily elevated them.

Every careless comment, every cruel post, every sarcastic remark carries consequences far beyond what we can imagine. At the same time, every sincere compliment, every word of gratitude, every expression of hope can change the direction of someone's day—or even someone's life.

I was reminded of this recently in two conversations that I will never forget.

The first was with my dear friend, New York Knicks legend Allan Houston.

We were meeting together shortly after the Knicks' remarkable playoff run when Allan handed me a folded piece of paper.

"Rabbi," he said, "I have something for you."

The night before Game Five of the Eastern Conference Finals, Allan had written a message. Copies were slipped underneath every player's hotel room door, along with every member of the coaching staff.

The players woke up that morning to these words:

"We're grateful to have gone through this journey together. What will be remembered most is not that it was done, but how it was done. Let God get the glory, for He wrote the story."

Then Allan signed my copy:

"To my friend Rabbi Cohen—keep letting God get the glory."

I was deeply moved.

Before the biggest game of the season, he wasn't talking about statistics, pressure, or championships.

He reminded everyone that character matters more than trophies.

Humility matters more than headlines.

Purpose matters more than applause.

Those few sentences carried extraordinary power. They lifted spirits. They redirected hearts. They reminded an entire team what truly mattered.

Words create worlds.

A second conversation, this one with my father, reminded me that words do something else as well.

They live long after we speak them.

Every week my father and I study Torah together. Recently we were learning the laws of lighting Shabbat candles. At the end of the discussion, we came across the beautiful custom that when women light the candles they should pray for their children—that their hearts be filled with Torah, faith, goodness, and purpose.

As we studied, I found myself becoming emotional.

My mother passed away nearly thirty-six years ago.

I began wondering:

What prayers did she whisper every Friday night?

What dreams did she carry as she stood before those candles?

How many of the blessings our family enjoys today are the flowering of prayers she offered decades ago?

I asked my father about a carved wooden artwork that always stood near where my mother lit the candles.

He smiled.

He told me that shortly after they were married in 1966, while living in Haifa, they found that carving together. They brought it home, and it became part of the sacred space where my mother welcomed Shabbat each week.

That simple memory suddenly made those prayers feel so real.

Then my father shared another remarkable story.

A well-known secular Israeli once described how, later in life, he found his way back to Jewish faith and observance.

Someone asked him what sparked his spiritual awakening.

He answered with an unexpected story.

His mother had been friendly with David Ben-Gurion. Every Friday night she lit Shabbat candles and prayed that her son would grow up to become like Ben-Gurion.

Then one day Ben-Gurion met the Chazon Ish.

He returned overwhelmed by the greatness of this Torah sage.

When his mother heard Ben-Gurion describe the Chazon Ish with such admiration, she quietly changed her Friday night prayer.

Instead of asking that her son become another Ben-Gurion, she prayed that he would become like the Chazon Ish.

Years passed.

Nothing seemed to happen.

But eventually, her son found his way back to Torah and later said that he believed those quiet prayers, offered faithfully week after week, planted seeds that only blossomed years later.

Words do not disappear.

Words become seeds.

Some bloom immediately.

Others wait patiently beneath the surface until the right season arrives.

That may be the deepest lesson of the talking donkey.

Speech is never merely speech.

Every sentence either brings more darkness into the world or more light.

Every conversation either builds or diminishes a relationship.

Every prayer leaves an imprint upon the soul.

The ancient Aramaic phrase avra k'davra—the source of our familiar expression "abracadabra"—literally means, "I create as I speak."

Long before modern psychology understood the power of language, Judaism taught that words shape reality.

They create homes.

They build marriages.

They inspire communities.

They strengthen teams.

They heal hearts.

They awaken faith.

And sometimes, they echo across generations.

The world does not need more noise.

It needs more light.

May we reclaim the sacred gift of speech.

May our words heal instead of wound, unite instead of divide, encourage instead of discourage.

May every blessing we offer and every prayer we whisper become seeds of hope for those we love.

And may the light we create with our words help illuminate not only our own lives, but our families, our communities, Israel, and our entire world.