When the Jewish people stood at the threshold of the Land of Israel, the Torah commanded them to write the words of the Torah on stones — and, according to Rashi, to make them understandable in seventy languages. Why would a Torah that belongs uniquely to the Jewish people be presented in the languages of the nations? The Gemara in Sotah and the discussion in Sanhedrin raise important questions about what non-Jews are permitted to learn from Torah. But perhaps there is another dimension that emerges from placing these sources together. I would like to suggest an idea of my own: perhaps making the Torah understandable to the nations was not about making the Jewish covenant universal, but about making Israel’s values and obligations visible and understandable to those living alongside Israel. Sometimes respect begins not with agreement, but with taking the time to understand what another person holds sacred.

There is a fascinating detail in this week’s parsha that raises a question I have been thinking about.

When the Jewish people were about to enter the Land of Israel, Moshe commanded them to take large stones, coat them with plaster, and write upon them all the words of the Torah. The Torah says that they should write them “be’er heitev” — very clearly.

Rashi gives a remarkable interpretation of those words: “In seventy languages.”

And this raises a question.

Why?

The Torah was given to the Jewish people. The Torah is our covenant, our inheritance, and our responsibility. This is precisely where another Gemara becomes important. In Sanhedrin 59a, Rabbi Yochanan says that a non-Jew who engages in Torah study is not permitted to study Torah in the manner that belongs uniquely to Israel. But when the Gemara brings the apparently opposite teaching of Rabbi Meir — that a non-Jew who studies Torah can be compared to a High Priest — it explains that Rabbi Meir is speaking about studying the Seven Noahide Commandments and their laws. Rashi explains that this means becoming knowledgeable in the laws that apply to them. The Rambam likewise codifies that non-Jews are to be occupied with their seven commandments.

So why, at this particular moment — when Israel is entering its own Land — is the Torah being made available in the languages of the nations?

Perhaps there is another dimension here.

I want to suggest an idea of my own. I have not found this explanation stated in the sources I have been studying, so I am not presenting it as a traditional commentary. Rather, it is a way that this remarkable episode speaks to me.

Perhaps the Torah is not being translated so that the nations can become Israel.

Perhaps it is being translated so that they can understand Israel.

Imagine that you walk into a store. On the door there is a sign written in a language you understand. It says:

Welcome. We are happy to have you here. But there are certain rules in this establishment. These are the standards by which we conduct ourselves, so that everyone can have a safe and pleasant experience.

You don’t have to agree with every rule.

You don’t have to make the store your own home.

But you have been given the opportunity to understand what you are walking into.

Could something similar be happening here?

The Jewish people are crossing the Jordan and entering the Land that G-D has given them. They are establishing themselves as a nation in their own land. And at that moment, the Torah is made visible — and, according to Rashi, understandable in the languages of the nations.

It is almost as if Israel is saying:

“This is the covenant by which we are going to live. This is what we believe. These are the values that will govern our lives. This is what G-D has commanded us.”

There is something deeply important about that kind of transparency.

We sometimes think that respecting another religion means agreeing with it. It doesn’t.

Respect does not require agreement.

I can believe that my path is the right path for me, while recognizing that another person has deeply held beliefs of their own.

And if I want someone to respect my values, I should be willing to extend that same basic respect to the person holding different beliefs — even when I do not fully understand them or agree with them. But respect for a person or for the existence of a religious tradition does not mean respecting every action carried out in its name. No belief gives a person the right to terrorize, murder, oppress, or deliberately harm innocent people. Respect for human beings and respect for human life must remain the foundation.

And perhaps that is one of the messages I see in the Torah being written in seventy languages.

The Torah remains the Torah of Israel.

The covenant remains the covenant of Israel.

The Jewish people are not being asked to give up their identity in order to make themselves acceptable to the nations.

Quite the opposite.

Israel is being told to be completely clear about who it is.

And perhaps that is part of the beauty of the seventy languages.

The Torah does not become less Jewish because it can be understood by someone who isn’t Jewish.

And a Jew does not become less Jewish by allowing another person to understand what he believes.

There is another remarkable passage in the Gemara that adds an additional dimension. Rabbi Shimon discusses the writing associated with the nations living in the Land and says that had they repented, they could have been accepted. Whatever the precise halachic and historical dimensions of that statement, the passage itself makes clear that the nations were being confronted with a message about the Torah, Israel, and the standards governing Israel’s relationship to the Land.

That is a powerful idea.

The message was not simply:

“You are different from us, therefore stay away.”

There was also an awareness that people can change, people can repent, and people can come to live differently.

This makes the Torah’s public presentation at the entrance to the Land feel less like a declaration of hostility and more like a declaration of identity and responsibility.

“This is who we are.”

“This is what we believe.”

“This is how we understand our obligations.”

And perhaps there is a lesson here for all of us.

We live in a world where people of different religions and cultures constantly encounter one another. Sometimes we react to differences with fear because we don’t understand them. We create caricatures of one another because we have never taken the time to learn what the other person actually believes.

Maybe the Torah is teaching us something different.

Before we judge someone else’s values, perhaps we should learn what those values actually are.

That doesn’t mean accepting them.

It doesn’t mean abandoning our own beliefs.

It means giving another person the dignity of being understood.

The Torah itself was written in seventy languages.

Perhaps there is a profound message in that:

Truth does not have to be hidden in order to remain sacred.

The Torah can belong uniquely to the Jewish people while still having something to teach the world.

And perhaps the Jewish people entering the Land were being taught something as well:

If you want the nations to understand who you are, make yourself understandable.

Don’t hide your values.

Don’t be ashamed of your identity.

Don’t demand that everyone become like you.

But don’t be afraid to let them see what you believe.

Because perhaps one of the first steps toward peace between people is very simple:

I don’t have to become you in order to respect you.

But I do have to be willing to understand you.

And perhaps that is one reason why, as the Jewish people stood on the threshold of the Land of Israel, the Torah was written so that the nations could understand what Israel stood for.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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What if the Torah's prohibitions are not simply restrictions, but divine advice about how to live? In this week's Parshat Ki Seitzei, we encounter the unusual case of the yefat to'ar, the beautiful captive woman—a situation in which the Torah recognizes the extraordinary power of human desire under the extreme conditions of war. Yet the Torah immediately shows us that getting what we desire does not necessarily lead to happiness. This raises a deeper question: when we are tempted by something we want right now, can we trust that our desire knows where the road leads—or should we listen to the One who sees the entire journey?

Parshat Ki Seitzei begins with one of the Torah’s most startling passages.

The Torah describes a soldier who goes to war, sees a beautiful captive woman, desires her, and wants to take her as a wife. The Torah then gives him a very specific procedure through which this relationship can eventually take place.

At first glance, this is difficult to understand.

Why would the Torah permit something that would otherwise be forbidden simply because a person’s desire is so strong?

Every day we face temptations. A person may want to eat something forbidden. He may want to take something that doesn’t belong to him. He may feel an attraction that he knows he should not pursue.

The Torah does not normally say, “Your desire is strong, so go ahead.”

Quite the opposite.

The Torah expects a person to exercise self-control.

So why is this case different?

The answer begins with the extraordinary circumstances of war.

The Talmud in Kiddushin explains the passage with the words:

“לא דיברה תורה אלא כנגד יצר הרע” — “The Torah spoke only in response to the evil inclination.”

Rashi explains that if the Torah had not created a permitted path, the soldier might take the woman in a forbidden way.

This does not mean that the Torah has suddenly decided that desire is a legitimate excuse for violating God’s commandments.

Rather, the Torah is recognizing something very specific about human nature.

This is not an ordinary temptation.

The person is in the middle of war. He is surrounded by violence, danger, physical exertion and heightened emotion. He is not standing in ordinary circumstances, living an ordinary day, and casually deciding whether to give in to a desire.

This is an extreme situation.

And Torah, which normally demands mastery over our desires, recognizes that this particular circumstance creates an extraordinarily powerful challenge.

There is a fascinating lesson here.

The Torah expects us to control ourselves. But the Torah also understands us.

It does not pretend that human beings are machines.

And yet, there is another part of this passage that may be even more remarkable.

The Torah gives the soldier a way to obtain what he desires—but then it immediately begins showing us where that desire will possibly lead.

Rashi points out that the sections following the captive woman are deliberately placed together. He explains that the man will eventually come to hate this woman, and eventually a rebellious son will emerge from the relationship.

In other words, the Torah is not simply showing us how to satisfy a desire.

It is showing us the trajectory of a desire.

And that brings me to an idea from the Zohar that has always struck me deeply.

The Zohar describes the 613 mitzvot as “תרי”ג עיטין” — 613 counsels or pieces of advice. The mitzvot are not merely a collection of arbitrary restrictions. They are divine guidance—G-d showing us how to navigate life.

That changes the way we can look at a prohibition.

Suppose a person wants to steal.

In that moment, his choice may look very simple:

“I can take this money, and then I will have the money.”

But the Torah says: Do not steal.

Why?

The Torah is not merely taking something pleasurable away from him.

It may be protecting his future.

I have the experience of visiting people in prisons through my work with A New Song USA, bringing music and Torah-inspired programs to incarcerated men and women.

In those visits, I have sometimes heard something that is both heartbreaking and revealing.

A person will tell me that he is actually glad he was caught.

Not because he wanted to go to prison.

But because he had become trapped in a cycle that he could no longer escape.

He kept stealing.

He kept making destructive choices.

And eventually getting caught forced the cycle to stop.

Think about the choice that person faced at the beginning.

He did not necessarily see:

“I am choosing prison.”

He saw:

“I am choosing the money.”

The problem was that he could see the immediate gratification much more clearly than he could see the end of the road.

And that is one of the great purposes of Torah.

Hashem sees the entire road.

We often see only the next step.

A prohibition can therefore be understood as something much deeper than a restriction.

It can be a warning:

“Don’t go down this road.”

There will be consequences

Sometimes they are immediate.

Sometimes they take years.

Sometimes they affect our relationships.

Sometimes they affect our character.

Sometimes they affect our freedom.

And sometimes we may never fully recognize the consequences in this world.

But the underlying principle remains:

The Torah knows something about the road that we may not yet be able to see.

That is why the episode of the captive woman is so fascinating.

Even when the Torah makes an extraordinary concession because of the extraordinary power of the temptation, it does not present that desire as the path to happiness.

The permission is not an endorsement.

It is an accommodation to human weakness.

And then the Torah shows us the possible consequences.

Perhaps this is why we should think twice when we encounter a mitzvah or a prohibition that seems to us like an obstacle to happiness.

We tend to think:

“If only G-D would let me do this, I would be happy.”

But perhaps the Torah is saying:

“If you could see the whole road the way I see it, you would understand why I am telling you not to go there.”

We often confuse pleasure with happiness.

Pleasure asks:

“What do I want right now?”

Wisdom asks:

“What kind of life will this choice create?”

And Torah gives us something even greater than wisdom.

It gives us the counsel of the One who sees the entire picture.

The Torah doesn’t merely tell us what we are not allowed to do.

It teaches us how to live.

And sometimes the greatest freedom is not the freedom to follow every desire.

It is the freedom to recognize where that desire is taking us—and to choose a different road.

Choose life.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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Why would the Jewish people look to the nations for something they wanted? Perhaps the answer begins with the idea that Chochmah ba’umot ta’amin — there is wisdom among the nations. We can recognize wisdom outside of Torah without simply adopting the worldview that produced it.

From there, I explore why the Torah says that Hashem will choose the king, yet also specifically tells us that he cannot be a foreigner. Why not choose someone who already has years of experience being a king? And once the Torah establishes kingship, why does it place so many restrictions on the king’s horses, wives, wealth, and relationship to Torah?

Perhaps the answer is that Torah doesn’t reject the wisdom of leadership. It transforms it.

The nations may teach us that a nation needs a king.

Torah teaches us that even the king needs a King.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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When the Torah says that the Jewish people asked for a king “like all the nations around us,” I find myself stopping at those words. Why would the Torah describe Israel looking to the nations for something they want? Perhaps the answer begins with a fundamental teaching of Chazal: Chochmah ba’umot ta’amin — there is wisdom among the nations. The nations may recognize something that is genuinely wise and valuable, even though they do not possess Torah. Kingship may be one such example. But when Hashem commands the Jewish people He does not allow them to copy what the nations have created. It takes the idea of kingship and places it under a completely different set of boundaries, reminding us that the person with the greatest power must also remain the most accountable.

There is a fascinating moment in this week’s parsha that made me stop and think.

In Deuteronomy 17, the Torah speaks about the Jewish people entering the Land of Israel and establishing themselves there. And then it says:

“When you come to the land that Hashem your God is giving you, and you inherit it and settle in it, and you say, ‘I will set a king over myself, like all the nations around me’...”

That wording is striking.

“Like all the nations around me.”

Why would the Jewish people look at the nations around them and say, We want what they have?

We might instinctively think that this is a negative thing. After all, why should the Jewish people be looking to the nations for guidance?

But there is another possibility.

Perhaps they were recognizing something that was genuinely wise.

There is a famous statement of Chazal:

Chochmah ba’umot ta’amin — there is wisdom among the nations.

Wisdom is not limited to one people.

A person can observe the world and recognize that another society has discovered something that works. We can learn from that observation even if that society does not possess Torah.

And perhaps kingship is an example.

The Jewish people could look around and see that the nations have organized systems of leadership. They have kings who provide direction, organize armies, administer countries, establish order, and lead their people.

They could recognize:

A nation needs leadership.

That’s Chochmah (wisdom).

And remarkably, the Torah doesn’t reject the idea.

But then something very important happens.

The Torah begins to put boundaries around the king.

The king cannot simply become a king in the same way that the kings of the surrounding nations are kings.

The Torah says that he cannot multiply horses for himself and specifically warns against returning to Egypt to acquire horses.

He cannot multiply wives for himself, lest his heart be turned away from G-D.

He cannot multiply silver and gold for himself.

And he must write two Torah scrolls for himself and keep them with him, reading from it and learning from it continually.

Why all these restrictions?

Because the Torah understands something about power.

Power creates access.

The king has access to military strength.

He has access to wealth.

He has access to people.

He has access to privilege.

And when a person has greater access, he also has greater opportunities to misuse what has been placed in his hands.

So, the Torah doesn’t merely give the king authority.

It gives him boundaries.

The king needs horses, but he cannot endlessly accumulate them.

He may have wealth, but he cannot endlessly accumulate it for himself.

He has enormous authority, but he cannot allow his heart to become elevated above his brothers.

And perhaps the most important safeguard is that the king himself must remain connected to Torah.

He has to write the Torah.

He has to keep it with him.

He has to read it.

He has to learn it.

And the Torah tells us why:

“So that his heart should not become elevated above his brothers.”

That is a remarkable statement.

The king has more power than the people.

But he is not more important than the people.

He is still one of their brothers.

And he is still a servant of Hashem.

This may be one of the fundamental differences between the wisdom of kingship and Torah kingship.

Chochmah can recognize that a nation needs a leader.

But Torah asks a deeper question:

What kind of king does Hashem want that leader to be?

What does it mean to hold tremendous power and still remain a servant of Hashem? What boundaries does a king need so that his authority doesn’t become arrogance, his wealth doesn’t become greed, and his power doesn’t become an end in itself?

And ultimately:

Who does the king answer to?

The answer is: Hashem.

A king who answers to nobody can eventually begin to see himself as the highest authority. And the danger isn’t only what happens to the king. It can also become dangerous for the people he leads. When a leader is no longer accountable to anything higher than himself, the people can be misled and begin to accept his desires, his values, and even his mistakes simply because he is the one in power.

Therefore, the Torah’s king has someone above him.

Hashem is above him.

And Torah is above him.

The king is not the source of the law.

He is subject to the law.

He doesn’t get to create his own morality because he has power.

He doesn’t get to accumulate unlimited wealth because he has access to the nation’s resources.

He doesn’t get unlimited personal gratification because he occupies the highest position in the country.

His position may be higher, but his responsibility is higher too.

And perhaps this is what it means to take Chochmah and bring it into Torah.

Torah does not necessarily say:

“The nations have this; therefore, we don’t want it.”

Instead, Torah can say:

“There is wisdom here. Now let’s see what happens when we place that wisdom within a relationship with Hashem.”

The institution remains.

But its boundaries change.

The purpose changes.

The person holding the power changes.

The king is no longer simply the person at the top.

He becomes a person who has to constantly remind himself that he, too, is under authority.

And perhaps that is a lesson that extends far beyond kings.

We live in a world where leadership can easily become confused with personal power.

The higher someone rises, the easier it can become to believe that the rules are for everyone else.

The Torah offers a radically different model.

The greater the power, the greater the need for boundaries.

The greater the authority, the greater the need to remain accountable.

And the higher the leader rises, the more important it becomes that he remembers that he is still a servant.

So perhaps the Torah is teaching us something about the relationship between wisdom and Torah:

Chochmah can recognize what works.

Torah takes that wisdom and directs it toward fixing the world.

Chochmah can recognize the need for leadership.

Torah teaches the leader how to live with power without becoming consumed by it.

And perhaps that is why the Torah can acknowledge wisdom among the nations without surrendering its own identity.

We can learn from the world.

We can observe.

We can recognize wisdom wherever we find it.

But when that wisdom enters the world of Torah, it is no longer simply copied.

It is transformed.

And perhaps the greatest transformation of all is this:

The nations may understand that a nation needs a king.

Torah teaches us that even the king needs a King.

Spoken Word Addition

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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There are ideas that quietly reshape the way we see the world. Recently, while studying a profound passage from Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler, I found myself asking a question that at first seemed historical but quickly became deeply personal. Why is it that idol worship, once one of the greatest spiritual struggles in history, now feels almost impossible for us to understand? The answer, I believe, is both surprising and unsettling. Perhaps the idols have not disappeared at all—they have simply become more sophisticated. In this week’s reflection, we’ll explore Rav Dessler’s remarkable insight into hester (concealment) and gilui (revelation) and consider whether the greatest forms of idolatry today are not statues of stone, but the subtle ways we begin to attribute independent power to the very things we have created.

“Lest you raise your eyes to heaven and see the sun, the moon, and the stars... which Hashem your God has apportioned to all the nations under the heavens.”
(Deuteronomy 4:19)

At first glance, this verse is difficult to understand. How could the Torah say that Hashem “apportioned” the sun, moon, and stars to the nations? Surely the Torah is not giving permission for anyone to worship them. The Torah repeatedly warns against the mistake of believing that any creation possesses independent power.

Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler explains that this was actually part of humanity’s spiritual challenge. The heavenly bodies appeared powerful. They illuminated the world, influenced nature, and seemed beyond human control. The mission was to recognize the truth hidden behind the appearance: the sun, the moon, and the stars are not powers themselves. They are only instruments through which Hashem runs His world.

This is the essence of what Rabbi Dessler calls hester—concealment. Hester does not mean that Hashem is absent. It means that His Presence is hidden behind the layers of creation. Gilui, revelation, occurs when a person looks beyond the surface and recognizes the Creator behind everything that exists.

The Jewish people were given a different starting point. Through the Torah, we were taught that there is only one true Source of power. The challenge was not to discover that the sun was not a god. The challenge was to recognize Hashem within every aspect of life and to overcome the many subtle ways we forget Him.

The Men of the Great Assembly prayed that the overwhelming desire toward open idol worship should be removed, and it was. Today, most people cannot relate to bowing before the sun or moon. Ancient forms of idolatry seem distant and almost impossible to understand.

But perhaps that is because the test has changed.

The human desire to find power, security, and salvation in something other than Hashem did not disappear. It simply became more sophisticated.

Money can become an idol when we see it as our ultimate security.

Fame can become an idol when we see it as the source of our value.

Power can become an idol when we believe it gives us control over our lives.

Technology can become an idol when we forget that it is only a tool and begin to see it as the answer to every human problem.

Even artificial intelligence presents this challenge. The fact that human beings can create something so complex can lead us to forget the greater miracle: the wisdom, creativity, consciousness, and very existence of the human being who created it all.

The mistake is not creation itself.

Creation is part of humanity’s purpose.

Hashem placed within human beings the ability to discover, build, and transform the physical world. Electricity, medicine, technology, and scientific discovery are all gifts that can be used to bring tremendous good.

But every gift also creates a new possibility for concealment.

Consider electricity. When human beings discovered how to harness it, we created light bulbs and transformed the world. Someone might say, “Look how far humanity has advanced. We no longer depend on fire for light.”

And that is true.

But another truth exists at the same time.

The same advancement can also make it easier to forget Hashem. A person may begin to see the human achievement while forgetting the One who created the laws of nature, the materials, the intelligence, and the ability to discover them.

The same creation can become either a curtain or a window.

It can hide Hashem, or it can reveal Him.

The question is not whether we create. The question is whether, after creating, we remember the Creator.

This may be one of the greatest spiritual challenges of our generation. We live surrounded by incredible human achievements, but those achievements can make the world appear more independent than ever before.

The more layers we place between ourselves and the natural world, the easier it becomes to forget the Source behind it all.

Our task is not to reject the world. Our task is to reveal Hashem within it.

To look at medicine and see the Healer.

To look at technology and see the wisdom of the Creator.

To look at human creativity and see the Divine gift that makes creativity possible.

Rabbi Dessler teaches that every person has a unique point of free choice, a nekudas habechirah—the place where the truth is not yet obvious and where a person must choose which reality to see.

Perhaps the great avodah of our generation is this:

Not to deny the power of creation, but to recognize its Source.

Not to run away from the world, but to reveal the One who created it.

Not to worship the things we have built, but to use them to discover the One who gave us the ability to build.

The greatest revelation is not escaping the world.

It is seeing Hashem within the world.

And perhaps that is the unique gilui our generation is being asked to bring.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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We’ve all had those moments when we surprise ourselves. Instead of reacting, we pause. Instead of letting anger take over, we manage to stay calm. It feels like a victory—and it is. But it also raises an important question: is one good moment enough to say we’ve changed, or is real transformation something much deeper? As I was learning an ancient teaching about anger, that question stayed with me, and it led me to think about what genuine growth really looks like.

I came across an idea recently that really made me stop and think.

The Zohar says that when a person becomes so angry that they throw things, slam doors, or tear at their clothes, they’ve given their anger control over them. In other words, they’re no longer responding from their highest self.

That sounds like a strong statement.

But if we’re honest, we’ve all had moments when anger seems to take over. We say things we wish we could take back. We react before we think. And when it’s over, we’re left wondering, “Why did I do that?”

As I was learning this, another question came to mind.

What about the person who struggles with anger but has a really good day? Maybe they’re learning Torah, and something they’re studying helps them stay calm when they would normally lose their temper.

Has that person changed?

I don’t think the answer is necessarily yes.

The great Jewish thinkers teach that real character isn’t built in a single moment. It’s built through repetition. One good decision is wonderful, but lasting change comes from making that same decision again and again until it slowly becomes part of who we are.

That’s one of the things I love about Torah.

It doesn’t just tell us what the right thing is. It slowly changes the person who’s learning it. It gives us a different way of seeing ourselves, other people, and the situations we face. Over time, what once felt impossible begins to feel natural.

That doesn’t mean we’ll never get angry again.

It means that, little by little, anger stops being the one driving our reactions.

Maybe that’s the real measure of growth.

Not whether I stayed calm today.

But whether I’m becoming the kind of person who will find it easier to stay calm tomorrow than I did yesterday.

Real change isn’t winning one battle.

It’s becoming a different person.

And that’s a process worth dedicating a lifetime to.

A Thought from Jewish Tradition

There’s a beautiful rabbinic story about Moshe Rabbeinu (our teacher) that has always stayed with me.

A king once had a portrait made of Moshe and asked experts to analyze the face they saw in the painting. To everyone’s surprise, they described a man with difficult character traits, including anger. The king couldn’t understand it. How could this be the same Moshe who spoke with God and was known for his humility?

Moshe’s answer was as profound as it was simple. He explained that they had correctly identified the traits he was born with. The difference was that he had spent his life working to transform them.

Whether or not we were born with a quick temper isn’t really the point. The question is whether we’re willing to do the work of changing. That’s why real growth isn’t measured by one calm afternoon. It’s measured by the person we’re becoming, one choice at a time.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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What does that teach us?

Perhaps that there is a profound difference between struggling and giving up, between stumbling and walking in the opposite direction. We all make mistakes, but as long as our hearts still seek truth, growth, and closeness to Hashem, we have not turned away.

This is an episode about hope, compassion, and the remarkable kindness built into the Torah’s view of human beings. Because blessing is not reserved for perfect people—it is also for those who keep trying, keep returning, and keep facing the right direction.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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Why would a loving G-d allow us to experience rebuke or hardship? Drawing from a powerful insight by Rabbi Noach Weinberg and the timeless wisdom of Parshas Eikev, this reflection explores the Torah’s view of discipline as an expression of love rather than rejection. Through biblical wisdom, personal experiences, and reflections on our generation’s search for meaning, we discover how every challenge can become an invitation to reconnect with our purpose—and why the days ahead hold extraordinary hope for the Jewish people and, ultimately, for all humanity.

One of the stories I remember hearing years ago from Rabbi Noach Weinberg has stayed with me ever since.

Imagine a young boy carelessly crossing a busy street. Cars are rushing by. Drivers lean on their horns and shout, “Watch where you’re going!”

Most of them keep driving.

But one driver suddenly stops, jumps out of the car, grabs the boy by the shoulders, and cries out, “What are you doing? You could have been killed!”

Who is that person?

His father.

The one who loves him the most is the one who cannot simply drive away. Love demands involvement. Love sometimes demands rebuke.

That is exactly the lesson Rabbi Weinberg connected to this week’s parshah. In Deuteronomy (8:5) we read:

“Know in your heart that just as a man disciplines his son, so Hashem your God disciplines you.”

The Torah teaches us that Hashem’s rebuke is never an expression of rejection. It is an expression of love. Like a father protecting his child from danger, Hashem guides us back whenever we begin drifting away from the purpose for which we were created.

The Jewish people were given a unique mission in this world. Humanity’s original purpose, entrusted first to Adam and later carried forward through Abraham and his descendants, is to reveal God’s presence in creation. We were given the Torah to teach us how to fulfill that mission and to become “a holy nation”—a people whose lives are directed not only by physical desires but by a higher calling.

Along with that mission come extraordinary blessings. But when we lose sight of it, the Torah tells us that Hashem sometimes redirects us, just as a loving parent redirects a child.

This perspective doesn’t remove the pain from life’s difficulties, nor does it answer every question. There are tragedies beyond human understanding, and we must approach them with humility. But Judaism teaches us that our challenges are never meaningless. They are opportunities to pause, reflect, and realign ourselves with the purpose for which we were created.

I understand how difficult that can be.

Before I became religious, Judaism often felt like an interruption to the life I wanted to live. During my bodybuilding years in Florida, my entire schedule revolved around training, eating, and reaching physical goals. Yom Kippur wasn’t something I looked forward to—it meant fasting, missing the gym, and stepping away from everything that seemed important to me at the time.

Looking back, I realize that my priorities were centered almost entirely on the physical world. And I think many people today can relate to that feeling.

In many ways, the pull of the physical world is even stronger now than it was then. Technology, entertainment, possessions, and endless distractions constantly compete for our attention. For many Jews, especially those raised with little or no Jewish education, spirituality can seem distant or even irrelevant.

I recently saw this firsthand while performing at a prison.

There were two inmates who identified as Jewish. One had a Jewish father but a non-Jewish mother. Although he was not Jewish according to halachah, he had learned a great deal about Judaism and knew its traditions well.

The other had a Jewish mother and was therefore Jewish according to halachah, but he had been raised Catholic and knew almost nothing about his own heritage.

That contrast reminded me how complicated Jewish identity has become in our generation. Many people simply never had the opportunity to discover the depth and beauty of the Torah.

Yet I believe something remarkable is beginning to happen.

As we move closer to the days of Mashiach, the endless pursuit of material fulfillment will eventually leave many people asking deeper questions. There comes a point when possessions are no longer enough, entertainment no longer satisfies, and the soul begins searching for something greater.

Those days are coming.

For the Jewish people, that search leads us back to the Torah and to the mission Hashem gave us. For the nations of the world, it means discovering a deeper relationship with the Creator and embracing the moral and spiritual purpose He has given all humanity.

The rebukes we experience along the way are not signs that Hashem has abandoned us. They are reminders that He has never stopped caring.

Like a father who runs into the street to save his child, Hashem calls us back because He wants us to fulfill the incredible purpose for which we were created.

May we merit to see the day when that purpose is fully revealed, when the world is filled with peace, unity, and the knowledge of God, and when all humanity experiences the blessings that the prophets promised.

May those days come speedily, in our time.

— The Jewish Wisdom Well

When we think about blessings, we usually think of health, financial security, success, or peace of mind. Yet in this week's parashah, Eikev, the Torah does something unexpected. After promising that Israel will be blessed, it immediately speaks about the blessing of children. Why would the Torah emphasize this blessing above so many others? In a world that often sees children as an inconvenience or a burden, perhaps the Torah is reminding us that the greatest blessings are not the ones that make life easier—they are the ones that teach us how to love, give, and grow beyond ourselves. And for those who cannot have children, this timeless lesson remains just as meaningful, revealing that the deepest blessing is found whenever we help another soul flourish.

In this week’s parashah, Eikev, the Torah makes a remarkable statement:

“Blessed shall you be above all peoples; there shall not be among you an infertile man or woman, nor among your cattle.” (Deuteronomy 7:14)

At first glance, the verse is surprising.

The Torah could have described blessing in countless ways. It could have spoken about wealth, success, health, security, abundant harvests, or long life. Instead, after declaring that we will be blessed above all nations, it immediately points to one blessing in particular: the ability to bring children into the world.

That should make us stop and think.

Our generation often sees children very differently. Many people worry that children will take away their freedom. They fear the financial cost, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, and the responsibilities. Children are sometimes spoken about almost as though they are a burden to be managed rather than a blessing to be cherished.

The Torah presents the exact opposite perspective.

Yes, children require sacrifice. They demand our time, our patience, our energy, and our resources. But perhaps that is precisely why they are such a blessing. The greatest blessings are rarely the ones that simply make life easier. They are the ones that make us greater.

A child teaches us to stop living only for ourselves.

The selfish heart asks, “What will I lose?” A giving heart asks, “What can I give?”

Parenthood stretches the human soul. It teaches patience, compassion, responsibility, forgiveness, and unconditional love. It transforms our priorities and reminds us that the deepest joy comes not from acquiring more for ourselves, but from giving ourselves to someone else.

Perhaps that is why the Torah singles out this blessing. It is not merely celebrating the birth of children. It is celebrating the birth of a giver.

There is also an important sensitivity that must be acknowledged.

Many wonderful people long to have children and carry that pain every day. This verse is not meant to deepen that pain or suggest that their lives are somehow lacking. Every human being is precious before Hashem, and many people who never become biological parents fill the world with extraordinary life.

Some become teachers who shape generations. Some become mentors who guide young people through life’s greatest struggles. Some become rabbis, educators, counselors, foster parents, or adoptive parents. Others simply become the person who believes in someone when no one else does.

The lesson of this verse is larger than biology.

The Torah is teaching us that the greatest blessing is not simply having a child. It is becoming the kind of person whose greatest joy is helping another human being grow.

Every one of us is capable of that.

Whether through our own children or through the countless lives we influence, Hashem gives each of us opportunities to become a source of life, hope, and growth.

Maybe that is the deepest message of Eikev.

The greatest blessing is not what we accumulate.

It is what we give away.

And the more we give ourselves to others, the more blessed we truly become.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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There are few words in Judaism that carry as much emotional weight as teshuvah. For many people, the word immediately brings to mind Yom Kippur, fasting, tears, confession, and the painful memory of our failures. It can seem as though repentance is something reserved for our darkest moments, a difficult obligation that hangs over us until we finally confront it.

But perhaps we have misunderstood what teshuvah really is.

The Hebrew word teshuvah simply means “return.”

It is not first and foremost about punishment. It is not even first and foremost about guilt. It is about coming home.

The Tanya describes three spiritual conditions: the tzaddik, whose evil inclination has been transformed; the beinoni, who struggles every day yet consistently chooses God’s will; and the rasha, who allows the struggle to become action.

For most of us, the goal is not to become a tzaddik. The Alter Rebbe makes it clear that the life expected of the ordinary person is the life of the beinoni. We are not judged by whether temptation exists within us, but by what we choose to do with it.

That realization changes everything.

Many people imagine that repentance is impossibly difficult. Yet the Rambam teaches that teshuvah begins with something remarkably simple: stop the wrongdoing, regret having distanced yourself from God, confess before Him, and sincerely resolve not to return to the sin.

A lifetime may be required to live out that decision, but the turning itself can happen in an instant.

So why do so many of us resist it?

Because somewhere deep inside we believe that God is asking us to surrender our happiness.

We fear that if we truly return, life will become smaller, less enjoyable, less exciting. We imagine that serving God means constantly denying ourselves.

The Torah offers a completely different vision.

The struggle is not between happiness and holiness. The struggle is between temporary pleasure and lasting joy.

The animal soul whispers, “Do whatever feels good right now.”

The divine soul quietly asks, “What will leave your heart at peace tomorrow?”

One voice promises excitement. The other promises fulfillment.

The first often leaves us wanting more.

The second leaves us wanting nothing more.

This is why Rabbi Noah Weinberg’s famous question remains so penetrating: “Are you living to eat, or eating to live?” The issue is not whether we enjoy the gifts of this world. Judaism encourages us to appreciate God’s blessings. The real question is whether pleasure serves our purpose or has become our purpose.

Teshuvah is not God’s way of taking joy away from us.

It is His way of rescuing us from chasing substitutes for joy.

Every time we return, we move a little closer to the person we were created to become. Every act of self-control is not the loss of freedom but the recovery of it. Every mitzvah is not another burden placed upon our shoulders but another step toward becoming whole.

Perhaps that is why the Alter Rebbe teaches that sadness itself can become an obstacle in serving God. A person who believes Judaism is only a list of restrictions will eventually become discouraged. But a person who discovers that every return is a return to his truest self begins to serve God with joy.

Maybe the deepest happiness is not found in getting everything we desire.

Maybe it is found in finally desiring what brings us closest to God.

Teshuvah, then, is not a journey away from happiness.

It is the journey toward the deepest happiness we were created to know.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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In 2018, while visiting Israel, I decided to take a tour of the Western Wall tunnels. I almost didn’t go. A rabbi I knew encouraged me to join because his wife, a rebbetzin and an accomplished tour guide, was leading it. Looking around the group, I noticed I was the only visibly Orthodox Jew. Most of the people there were tourists from different backgrounds and different countries.

The tour itself was fascinating, but one comment has stayed with me ever since.

Standing beneath the ancient stones of Jerusalem, the rebbetzin explained that when the Holy Temple is rebuilt, it will not be a blessing only for the Jewish people. The entire world will benefit. G-d’s presence in the Temple was never intended to bless one nation alone. Its purpose was that His blessing would flow outward to all humanity.

Years later, while learning on Tisha B’Av, I came across this same theme once again. Our Sages teach that when the Temple stands and the Jewish people fulfill their calling, the blessings that come into the world extend far beyond Israel. The nations of the world also benefit from G-d’s Presence dwelling openly among us.

That thought led me to this week’s Torah portion, Parshas Eikev.

The parsha begins, “And it shall be, because (eikev) you listen to these ordinances and observe them....”

Rashi explains that G-d promises to faithfully uphold His covenant when Israel remains faithful to His commandments. The Torah then describes extraordinary blessings: healthy families, fruitful fields, prosperity, protection from illness, and a nation blessed above all others.

When we look around today, we know these promises have not yet reached their complete fulfillment. We still live in a world marked by suffering, division, and hatred. The Jewish people continue to face challenges that remind us we are still waiting for the fullness of G-d’s promises.

Yet something else struck me as I read these verses.

Every one of us is already living on borrowed kindness.

The breath in our lungs, the food on our tables, the people we love, another sunrise, another opportunity to begin again—none of these are things we earned. They are gifts from a loving Creator.

The blessings described in Parshas Eikev are something more.

They are covenant blessings.

Every meaningful relationship in life grows through commitment. A marriage becomes stronger when both husband and wife give of themselves. Friendships deepen through loyalty. Families flourish when people choose to love even when it requires sacrifice.

Our relationship with G-d is no different.

The Torah is not describing a business deal where blessings are purchased by good behavior. It is describing a covenant—a relationship in which G-d continually gives to us, and invites us to respond by walking in His ways. As that relationship deepens, the blessings deepen as well.

Unfortunately, many people hear words like “commandments” or “obligation” and immediately think of pressure or restriction. But the Torah presents a very different picture. G-d’s mitzvot are not meant to diminish our lives. They are meant to help us become the people we were created to be.

Perhaps that is why the rebbetzin’s words affected me so deeply that day in the tunnels beneath Jerusalem.

The Jewish people were never chosen simply to receive blessings. We were chosen to become a source of blessing.

When the Temple is rebuilt, it will not be a triumph for one nation over another. It will be a moment when G-d’s Presence is revealed more clearly, and the entire world shares in the goodness that flows from it.

There is one more beautiful lesson hidden in the name of this week’s parsha.

The word eikev also means “heel.” The heel is not the highest part of the body. It is the part that quietly takes one step after another, often unnoticed. Great journeys are not made in giant leaps. They are made one faithful step at a time.

Perhaps that is exactly how redemption comes as well.

Not all at once, but through countless small acts of faith, kindness, honesty, prayer, and obedience. One person. One choice. One mitzvah. One act of compassion. One step after another.

Each step may seem small by itself.

But every journey to Jerusalem begins with a single step.

And perhaps every step we take toward G-d brings the whole world one step closer to the day when His blessings will flow freely to all humanity.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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What does it mean to truly pray?

Moshe Rabbeinu—the greatest prophet who ever lived—asked Hashem for a gift. Not because he lacked merit, but because he understood the deepest truth: everything we have is already a gift.

Yet Moshe’s prayer was not answered in the way he hoped.

This teaches us that prayer is not a way to control Heaven. It is a way to transform ourselves and build a relationship with the One who gives everything.

One of the first comments Rashi makes on this week’s parshah has always intrigued me.

The parshah opens with the words, “Va’eschanan el Hashem”—”And I pleaded with Hashem.” Rashi explains that the word va’eschanan refers to asking for a free gift. He adds something, that even the righteous, who have many merits, do not ask Hashem to answer their prayers because they deserve it. They ask only as recipients of His kindness.

Rashi learns this from Hashem’s words to Moshe, “V’chanoti es asher achon”—”I will show favor to whom I will show favor.” But when I first read those words, they seemed to say the opposite. Doesn’t the phrase “to whom I will show favor” imply that there are certain people whom Hashem chooses to favor?

And if that is true, wouldn’t someone praying with these words in mind still be hoping that they are one of those people? Isn’t that, in a sense, still relying on being worthy of receiving Hashem’s favor?

The more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder if Rashi was emphasizing something entirely different.

Perhaps the focus is not on who receives Hashem’s favor but on the fact that Hashem is One who gives with favor. Before the verse tells us anything about the recipient, it teaches us something about Hashem Himself. His kindness is never something we can demand. He gives because giving is part of His nature.

That changes the entire way we look at prayer.

There is a tremendous difference between saying, “Hashem should answer me because I deserve it,” and saying, “Hashem, I know You are compassionate, and I am placing my trust in Your kindness.”

One is a claim. The other is a relationship.

As I was thinking about this, another insight suddenly came to me. At first I wasn’t even sure it belonged here, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to fit.

The Torah describes Moshe as the humblest person who ever lived. If anyone had reason to recognize his greatness, it was Moshe. He spoke to Hashem more closely than any other person, brought the Torah to the Jewish people, and led them through the wilderness for forty years.

So why was he the humblest?

Perhaps the answer is that his humility wasn’t despite his closeness to Hashem. It was because of it.

The closer Moshe came to Hashem, the more clearly he saw that everything he possessed came from Hashem. His wisdom was a gift. His prophecy was a gift. His leadership was a gift. Even his ability to serve Hashem faithfully was itself a gift.

Maybe that is what real humility is. It is not pretending we have no gifts. It is recognizing where those gifts came from.

But Moshe’s humility teaches us something even deeper.

He approached Hashem in exactly the way Rashi describes. He asked for a gift. He did not claim that Hashem owed him anything. He prayed with complete humility.

And yet his request was still not granted.

He was not allowed to enter Eretz Yisrael.

That reminds us that the Torah is not teaching us a technique for getting what we want. It is teaching us how to stand before Hashem.

Sometimes we unconsciously turn prayer into a transaction. We think that if we pray enough, learn enough, or perform enough mitzvos, then Hashem should answer us the way we hope. But Moshe’s prayer teaches us otherwise.

The value of prayer is not only found in the answer we receive. It is found in the person we become through the asking.

If I only pray in order to get what I want, then unanswered prayers may leave me discouraged or even resentful. But if I pray because I want to approach Hashem truthfully, then every sincere prayer has value, regardless of the outcome.

That is true of all mitzvos. We do not serve Hashem because we can guarantee a particular result. We serve Him because it is true. We give charity because it is right to give. We pray because it is right to pray. We strive to become the people the Torah calls us to become, whether or not life unfolds according to our plans.

Perhaps that is why Moshe began his prayer with Va’eschanan.

The greatest man who ever lived did not stand before Hashem as someone collecting a debt. He stood before Him with gratitude, humility, and trust.

Maybe that is the real gift hidden in this week’s parshah. It is not simply learning how to ask Hashem for something. It is learning how to stand before Him.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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I spent the morning davening and learning the subjects that our sages permit on Tisha B’Av—the Zohar, Midrash, and the passages that speak about the destruction. After that, my body simply gave out. Years ago I could sit in yeshiva and learn throughout the fast. As I’ve gotten older, I simply can’t do that anymore. Most of the day I have been lying in bed, exhausted.

Yet while my body has grown weaker, the questions inside me have only become stronger.

All day I have wanted to express something that comes from the deepest place within me, but I feel almost incapable of reaching it. Instead, I find myself circling around the surface, describing my feelings without quite touching their source.

When I was younger, before I became religious, my songs came directly from inside me. My song Superman was really about my longing to become someone who could save the world. I didn’t necessarily realize that at the time, but looking back, I can see it now. The songs came from somewhere deep inside.

Since becoming religious, my writing has changed. Now it usually begins with something I learn in Torah. A verse, an insight from Chazal, an idea from the Zohar—it strikes something inside me, and then the writing begins. When I recognize a truth that resonates within me, I try to give it words.

But today I wondered whether I had forgotten how to begin from the inside.

I wish I could simply sit down, listen to my own soul, and write whatever it is trying to say. Maybe one day I will. Maybe there have already been moments when I have without realizing it. But sitting here now, I don’t feel that I have reached that place.

There is another feeling that has stayed with me all day.

I want to cry.

Not because crying itself is the goal, but because tears seem to come from a place that words cannot reach.

Our sages teach that “the gates of tears are never closed.” Those words have always moved me. If there is one gate that always remains open, then perhaps tears reach places that even words and prayer sometimes cannot.

But what if the tears never come?

Can a person cry inside while remaining dry-eyed? Is that still called crying? Or are tears something that must actually fall from our eyes?

Actors can make themselves cry. They think about certain things and bring themselves to tears. But they are usually doing it for an audience, for a performance. That isn’t what I want. I don’t want tears for a stage. I want tears before Hashem.

Then another thought entered my mind.

What if I simply asked Hashem to help me cry?

At first that felt strange. Shouldn’t tears come naturally? Shouldn’t they rise on their own from genuine pain?

But then I remembered that everything comes from Hashem. If He helps me reach a place of honesty that I cannot reach by myself, would those tears be any less real?

Perhaps not.

Then another question arose.

When Chazal speak about the gates of tears, are they speaking about the physical drops that come from our eyes? Or are tears simply the outward sign of something much deeper?

Perhaps tears are not the thing itself.

Perhaps they are what happens when the heart finally reaches a place of complete truth.

If that is true, then the real question is no longer, “Why can’t I cry?”

The real question is, “What is keeping me from that place of truth?”

I wondered if the answer might be regret.

Real regret is difficult. Human beings have an amazing ability to explain away their mistakes. We become comfortable with things that once would have disturbed us.

Imagine someone whose careless actions caused another person’s death. Not a murderer, but someone whose mistake had devastating consequences. Such a person would carry the weight of that knowledge for the rest of his life. The regret would not come simply from being told he had done something wrong. It would come from finally seeing the damage his actions caused.

Maybe that is true of all our sins.

Perhaps we struggle to regret them because we never truly see their consequences.

A careless word may seem small to me, but perhaps it wounded another person far more deeply than I know. That pain may have affected their family, their children, the way they treated someone else. One small action can travel much farther than we ever imagine.

A small act of dishonesty.

A moment of anger.

A broken promise.

A cruel remark.

We often measure our actions by how small they appear in the moment. Hashem measures them by how far they travel.

Perhaps if I could truly see the effects of my own actions—not to drown in guilt, but simply to understand reality—then regret would come naturally.

And perhaps from genuine regret, tears would come naturally as well.

Or perhaps regret is only one doorway.

Maybe tears come when all the walls we build around our hearts finally begin to fall. For one brief moment we stop defending ourselves before Hashem. We stop explaining. We stop rationalizing. We simply stand before Him exactly as we are.

Maybe that is what I have been searching for all day.

Not tears themselves.

But the place from which tears are born.

As I read back over these thoughts, I realize something I didn’t see when I first began writing.

I started this evening believing that I no longer knew how to write from within myself.

But perhaps I had it backwards.

Perhaps the Torah was never replacing my inner voice.

Perhaps it has been gently leading me back to it all along.

Maybe that is one of Torah’s greatest gifts. It does not silence the soul. It teaches us how to hear it.

Perhaps Tisha B’Av is not asking me to force myself to cry.

Perhaps it is inviting me to become honest enough that, if tears come, they come because my heart has finally reached the truth.

And maybe that itself is the beginning of rebuilding.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

My hope isn’t to answer prophetic questions or offer certainty where our great sages have exercised humility. Rather, it’s to explore how we experience suffering, how easily we become accustomed to both pain and blessing, and how the Nine Days invite us to see our history—and our present—with fresh eyes.

Whether you’re listening on a walk, driving to work, or sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, thank you for joining me. I hope this conversation brings you a little closer to the hope that has sustained our people through every generation.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. What helps you balance mourning with hope during the Nine Days?

-The Jewish Wisdom Well

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Throughout human history, one of the greatest challenges has been learning how to respond to wrongdoing. When someone hurts us, betrays our trust, or commits terrible acts, our instinct is often to define that person by what they have done. Yet at the beginning of Sefer Devarim, Moshe reveals a different way. Standing before the Jewish people and preparing them for their future, he rebukes them for their failures—but he does so while protecting their honor. This seemingly small detail opens a much deeper question: How can we confront sin without losing sight of the person? How can we pursue justice without allowing anger to destroy our own humanity? Through Moshe’s example, and through the Torah’s teachings about punishment, justice, and even vengeance, we discover a profound truth: a person’s actions may deserve judgment, but every human being remains connected to the One who created them.

The opening of Sefer Devarim begins in a surprising way. Moshe gathers the Jewish people and reminds them of the places where they rebelled against G-D. Yet he does not list their sins openly. Instead, he alludes to them through place names. Rashi explains why: “Because of the honor of Israel.”

This is remarkable.

If anyone had the right to speak harshly, it was Moshe. He had carried the nation through forty years of complaints, rebellions, and failures. Their conduct had even contributed to the circumstances surrounding the mistake that would prevent him from entering the Land of Israel. Yet when the time came to rebuke them, he refused to strip them of their dignity.

Why?

If they had truly angered G-D, why preserve their honor?

Perhaps because the Torah distinguishes between a person’s actions and a person’s essence.

Actions can become corrupt. Deeds deserve judgment. Sin deserves rebuke. But a human being never becomes identical with his failure.

Moshe did not soften the truth. He simply refused to speak in a way that would make the people forget who they were.

This principle extends far beyond that moment in the wilderness.

A parent correcting a child...
A teacher correcting a student...
A manager correcting an employee...
A husband or wife speaking difficult words...

The question is not only whether the criticism is true. The deeper question is whether it preserves the dignity of the person who must hear it.

A person who feels only shame often becomes defensive. A person who knows that his greatness is still seen can find the strength to rise above his failure.

Perhaps that is why Moshe hid the rebuke within gentle allusions. He wanted Israel to remember their sins, but never to forget their greatness.

But the Torah does not stop there.

What about the criminal?

Surely someone who has committed terrible crimes has surrendered the right to honor.

Yet the Torah draws another distinction.

Justice must be done. Punishment is real. Evil is not excused.

Yet even after conviction, the Torah is careful not to inflict unnecessary humiliation. The deed may deserve punishment, but the person remains a human being.

Then the question becomes even harder.

What about war?

The Torah itself commands wars. Sometimes those wars involve the destruction of nations whose corruption has reached its end.

Has such a person lost the image of G-D?

Perhaps not.

The right to continue living in this world and being created in the image of G-D are not the same thing.

A person may, through his own choices, forfeit his right to life. But he does not cease to be a human being. Justice concerns what must now be done. The image of G-D concerns what he always was.

That distinction is not only for the one being judged.

It is for the one carrying out the judgment.

If I convince myself that another person is no longer human, something within me begins to die as well.

The Torah therefore demands something extraordinarily difficult: carry out justice without surrendering your own humanity.

This becomes even clearer when we consider revenge.

Human revenge says, “You hurt me, so I want you to suffer.”

The Torah’s concept of nekamah is something entirely different. Justice belongs to God. “Kel Nekamot Hashem“—”G-D of vengeance.” True vengeance is not the satisfaction of wounded pride but the restoration of G-D’s moral order.

Perhaps that is why Moshe is such a powerful example.

If anyone could have spoken from personal resentment, it was he. Yet there is no trace of settling scores. His rebuke was born entirely from concern for G-D’s people, not for his own wounded feelings.

The humble person is capable of justice because he has removed himself from its center.

And perhaps this is the deepest lesson of all.

We often think that preserving another person’s dignity is a statement about them.

Perhaps it is first a statement about us.

It reveals whether we still recognize the Creator in front of us.

The Torah does not teach that every person has the same role. Israel carries a unique covenant and mission. But beneath every difference lies a truth that precedes them all.

Every human being has the same Creator.

That truth does not erase justice.

It deepens it.

It reminds us that rebuke without humiliation, punishment without cruelty, war without hatred, and justice without personal vengeance are all possible only when we refuse to confuse what a person has done with what a person is.

The world constantly tempts us to define people by their worst moment.

The Torah asks us to do something far more difficult.

Never stop seeing the Creator’s image, even while confronting the creature’s sin.

That is not weakness.

It is the deepest form of justice.

-The Jewish Wisdom Well