In Chayei Sarah, Abraham does something brave. When it’s time to find a wife for his son Isaac, he refuses to choose from the neighbors around him. These were the people he did business with, lived among, interacted with every day — but they did not share his values. So he sends his servant far away to find someone who does.
Abraham teaches us something simple and powerful: proximity is not loyalty. Geography is not identity. Values matter more than convenience.
Rembrandt’s “The Jewish Bride,” (c. 1665) originally called “Isaac and Rebecca”
We are living this lesson now. In the last year, too many of us have watched people we assumed were “ours” turn their backs — classmates, coworkers, fellow Jews, even friends who share our politics. Being nearby doesn’t make someone trustworthy. Sharing a label doesn’t make them aligned. We’ve learned, painfully, that not everyone who sits next to us stands with us.
Abraham reminds us that it’s okay — even necessary — to choose our people carefully. To build relationships around courage and truth, not comfort or habit. To seek out the ones who show up for Jewish dignity when it’s hard, not only when it’s fashionable.
Isaac didn’t need a local partner; he needed the right partner. So do we.
Abraham once defended the wicked on the merit of the righteous few. Today, the world defends the wicked for the sake of evil masses.
The Moral Math of Vayera In Parashat Vayera, God tells Abraham that Sodom will be destroyed for its depravity. The city is beyond saving — cruelty is civic policy, justice a mockery. But Abraham does the unthinkable: he defends the wicked, not because he excuses them, but because he believes that within their city a few righteous might remain.
“Will You indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” (Genesis 18:23)
Abraham bargains God down — fifty, forty-five, thirty, twenty, ten. If even one percent (population of Sodom estimated 1,000) righteous can be found, the city deserves another chance. Abraham’s plea becomes the Torah’s first moral equation: mercy for the many on the merit of the few. He argues for the wicked because of the righteous – or perhaps for only the righteous to be spared.
Abraham praying to God on behalf of the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah, by Étienne Delaune (1518-1583)
A Sordid Defense of Evil Four thousand years later, the moral logic has flipped. After the October 7 massacre — the torture, murder, and kidnapping of civilians — millions marched not to defend the righteous within Gaza, but to defend the wicked who carried out the atrocities. From London to New York, the cry was “Globalize the Intifada.” The United Nations would not even utter Hamas’s name.
They did not plead for ten good souls but glorified evil itself. Abraham argued for the guilty because he believed in goodness; today’s socialist-jihadists argue for the guilty because they despise Jews. That is not compassion — it is moral rot spreading far from the center of evil, infecting universities, newsrooms, and now city halls.
In Sodom’s time, no one defended depravity. Today, Genocide becomes “context.” Rape becomes “resistance.” Decapitation becomes “desperation.” Abraham fought for the 99 percent on the merit of the 1 percent righteous. Now we see millions fighting for the 75 percent wicked, based on the very actions of the depraved.
Nowhere is this clearer than in New York City — home to the world’s largest Jewish community — where activists chanting “Globalize the Intifada” and rape deniers will shape city politics. The descendants of Abraham are mocked as colonizers in their own synagogues and schools.
The Torah is silent on the punishment for those who aid and abet wickedness, but American law is not. The U.S. forbids “material support to terrorism.” Groups like CAIR face renewed scrutiny for Hamas ties; Students for Justice in Palestine has been banned from campuses for celebrating terror. Perhaps the law will finally catch up to those who glorify murder under the banner of justice.
Or New York City’s new mayor will bend and enforce the law to his own tune.
Abraham taught that one may plead for the wicked only on the merit of the righteous — never for the wicked in a moral void. The first is faith and mercy; the second, blasphemy and depravity. Today, we have lost the lesson, a moral stain on this generation.
The first words God ever spoke to the first Jew were not of comfort, but command:
“Go forth from your country, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1)
Abraham was told to leave everything that gave him safety — his home, his family, his people — and to walk alone to a foreign and unknown land.
That is the Jewish story. And it remains Israel’s story today.
Abraham Ortelius map “Journey of Abraham”, 1595
The Call to Walk Alone
Lech Lecha is more than a journey of geography; it is a test of courage. Abraham separated from a world that had lost its moral compass. He stood against the idols of his age.
Israel does the same now. The world pities the violent. It demands “restraint” from the victim and “understanding” for the murderer. Israel stands almost alone — mocked, pressured, condemned — for defending its people from those who glory in death.
Lech Lecha reminds us that holiness begins with separation. To follow conscience sometimes means turning your back on the crowd.
The Lonely Battle
When Abraham heard that his nephew Lot was taken captive, he didn’t wait for permission. He gathered a few hundred men and faced an army of kings. Outnumbered, he fought — and won.
That is Israel today. A small nation surrounded by hostile powers, fighting not for conquest but survival. Like Abraham, it refuses to wait for global approval before rescuing its own.
The Modern Lech Lecha
To stand alone is never easy. It is lonely, painful, and exhausting. But moral isolation is not failure — it is faith.
Abraham began our story by walking away from a world gone mad. Israel continues it by standing firm in one.
Lech Lecha — Go forth. Fight on. Even if you walk alone.
In the Garden of Eden, God brought every creature before Adam to find him a mate. Yet “for Adam, no fitting helper was found.” Only then did God cast him into a deep sleep and create Eve from his side — not from the dust like the animals, but from within him. The relationship itself became sacred, a reflection of divine unity.
Ten generations later, when the world sank into corruption, Noah was told to gather the animals in pairs into the ark. Humanity, which had once never contemplated the holiness of distinctive companionship, was now preserved precisely through those who respected it. Adam searched for love among the animals; Noah safeguarded them. The story of creation evolved from seeking connection to sustaining it.
The Animals entering Noah’s Ark, Jacopo Bassano (1510–1592)
Our sages teach that “Hakadosh Baruch Hu moshiv yehidim baita” — the Holy One, blessed be He, makes returns single people to their homes [finds them a match] (Sotah 2a). The Talmud even imagines a heavenly voice proclaiming forty days before a child’s birth, “The daughter of so-and-so is destined for so-and-so.” God, as eternal matchmaker, continues the work He began in Eden — binding souls and sustaining worlds.
But if God is busy creating couples, perhaps mankind should be busy preserving them. Jewish life places enormous focus on shidduchim — helping singles find their match. Entire communities dedicate themselves to it, often lamenting the so-called “shidduch crisis.” Yet where is the equal effort for those already joined?
If marriages were more visibly nurtured — their holiness cherished, their struggles handled with care, their perseverance admired — perhaps the next generation would see marriage not as a fragile structure to fear, but as a sacred vessel worth building.
Maybe the remedy to the shidduch crisis is not exclusively with matchmaking, but with modeling. When society sees sanctification in marriage — not perfection, but devotion — it rekindles faith in the possibility of love itself. The story of Adam reminds us of the importance of a mate; the story of Noah teaches us to protect the bond once found. From creation to covenant, God builds the world through couples — and invites us to do the same.
May our generation learn to honor both halves of the divine equation — to help the lonely find their other, and to help the found remain together.
The Torah opens in a world where inheritance belongs to the firstborn — where privilege is order, and order is destiny. Yet from its very first stories, the Bible breaks that rule.
Cain, humanity’s firstborn, murders his brother and loses everything. Abel, the second, dies without heirs. Humanity continues through Seth, the third son. The pattern is set. Abraham, father of monotheism, is not his father’s eldest. His younger son Isaac inherits the covenant, and Isaac’s younger son Jacob inherits it again.
By the time Israel becomes a nation, the inversion is complete. The Jewish people today descend from Levi and Judah — the third and fourth sons — not from Reuben, the firstborn. A book born in a culture of primogeniture systematically overturns it.
Why?
The Bible begins by showing the cost of bad choices. Adam and Eve possess everything, yet choose wrongly. The Fall from Eden inaugurates the central lesson of Scripture: that moral choice determines inheritance. Paradise is not lost by fate but forfeiture.
Michelangelo, The Fall of Man (1509-10), Sistine Chapel, Rome
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks wrote that this pattern is not incidental but revolutionary.
“The Torah is not a chronicle of power. It is a critique of power.” — Covenant & Conversation: Genesis
The Bible’s rejection of firstborn privilege is a moral protest against the idea that greatness is inherited. Sacks called it “the divine displacement of power” — God’s way of declaring that leadership is not a birthright but a calling.
Each time the younger supplants the elder, it signals that the future is not fixed. The world may honor the order of birth, yet God honors the order of the heart. Greatness is not bestowed by lineage but achieved through moral courage.
This inversion gives agency to every person. The Torah’s message is that destiny is not preordained. We are not bound by family rank or societal hierarchy. Cain’s fall was not inevitable. Abraham could have ignored God’s call. Jacob could have reconciled instead of wrestled. Every figure in Genesis acts — and through action, alters the story of the world.
Sacks extends the idea to Israel itself:
“God’s chosen people are not the privileged people; they are the choosing people — those who freely choose to live by the call of holiness.”
We are all born into someone else’s order. Or disorder. The question is whether we accept it, or, like our forefathers, we choose holiness — and through that choice, earn that inheritance.
The final Torah reading before the festival of Sukkot, Haazinu, is a song of warning. Moses, nearing his death, calls heaven and earth as witnesses to the covenant — and then lays bare the consequences if Israel abandons its moral anchor. When the nation becomes “fat,” reveling in abundance and forgetting the source of its blessings, punishment will follow. Prosperity, once unmoored from gratitude and purpose, becomes the seed of ruin.
Just a few days later, on Shabbat Chol HaMoed Sukkot, Jews read Kohelet (Ecclesiastes). Its message mirrors Haazinu but turns inward: even the individual who possesses everything — wisdom, power, wealth, prestige, pleasure — finds himself hollow. “I made great works… I built houses and planted vineyards for myself,” writes King Solomon in Chapter 2. Yet he concludes, “It was all futile and a pursuit of wind; there was no real value under the sun.”
The parallel between Haazinu and Kohelet is striking and the proximity of their readings is seemingly deliberate. One warns the nation about collective moral decay born of excess and God’s punishment; the other exposes the personal emptiness that comes when abundance replaces meaning. Together they form a spiritual counterpoint on Sukkot — the holiday when Jews leave their sturdy homes to dwell in fragile huts, to remember that joy comes not from walls or wealth but from faith, family, and divine connection.
A life disconnected from those simple pleasures — from loving one’s spouse, nurturing one’s family, and walking humbly with God — cannot sustain happiness. Unmoored excess may glitter for a moment, but like Solomon’s “pursuit of wind,” it slips through fingers, leaving behind only the passing echo of what might have been joy.
And so, we sit beneath the s’chach of the sukkah, exposed to wind and light, reminded of the temporary nature of all possessions. The walls sway, the roof leaks, yet the heart is full. In simplicity, vulnerability, gratitude and “connectedness,” we rediscover the only abundance that truly endures — the shelter of faith and the warmth of those we love.
There is a reason the Bible lingers on grapes. They are rich, sweet, bursting with promise — a fruit that invites you in.
When the spies returned from scouting the Promised Land, they brought back a single cluster so heavy it had to be carried on a pole. That image has endured for millennia: the land was good, overflowing, generous. The fruit drew the Israelites forward, a taste of the future God promised.
Yet that same cluster became a stumbling block. The spies’ report turned the promise into fear. Instead of trusting that the God who brought them out of Egypt would also give them this land, they shrank back. The grapes that should have stirred hope instead fed doubt about the size and power of the land. The draw of abundance proved to be no guarantee of holiness.
Grapes in the Song of Moses
Forty years later, as Moses prepared the people to finally enter the land, he again reached for the image of the grape and the vine, which must have still captured the imaginations of the generation that wandered the desert. In the Song of Ha’azinu he sang of the bounty to come:
“Honey from the rock,… milk of the flock,… and the blood of the grape you drank as wine.” (Deuteronomy 32:13-14)
The land’s fruit would not be a passing token or aspiration as it was in the wilderness — it would be a daily reality. The vine was not only a sign of blessing but also of permanence.
And Moses warned that the very blessing could corrupt:
“Yeshurun grew fat and kicked… then he forsook the God who made him.” (Deuteronomy 32:15)
When abundance becomes self-indulgence, the sweetness sours. The gift is no longer an offering; it becomes an idol.
The Poisoned Vintage
The Song of Moses added a different reference to wine – not of over abundance but used for immoral purposes:
“Their vine is from the vine of Sodom, their grapes are grapes of poison, their wine is the venom of serpents.” (Deuteronomy 32:32-33)
The same fruit, when cultivated for injustice and oppression, becomes toxic. The vine can yield joy or venom depending on the heart of the grower.
The Test of Blessing
The Bible’s teaching is that grapes themselves are neither holy nor unholy. They are a draw — a gift meant to be enjoyed in gratitude and moderation.
When abundance is hoarded, flaunted, or wielded for harm, it ceases to be a blessing. The line between the vineyard of the Lord and the vineyard of Sodom lies not in the soil but in the soul.
The cluster carried by the spies, the wine of the Song of Moses, and the poisonous vintage of the nations all point to the same truth: the fruits of the earth reveal the heart of the one who gathers them.
It is our message as we leave the Fast of Yom Kippur and ready for the joyous and communal holiday of Sukkot: wine in moderation and with purpose, gladdens and sanctifies. In excess or in service of corruption, intoxicates and destroys.
On Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the haftarah proclaims:
“You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea..” — Micah 7:19
That verse frames the season. At the start of the Ten Days of Repentance, we gather by a river or lake for Tashlich, casting crumbs into the current as a sign of casting off our wrongs. It is not superstition but a declaration of hope: the sinner is not the sin; the two can be parted.
Jonah’s Descent
At the other end of the Ten Days, on Yom Kippur afternoon, we read the story of Jonah — the counter-story.
Jonah fled from God’s call aboard a ship. A storm raged over the ship until the sailors, reluctantly, cast him overboard, and suddenly the sea grew calm. By all natural expectation, Jonah should have floated. Instead, he sank. He recounts:
“The waters closed in over me; the deep engulfed me; weeds were wrapped around my head.” — Jonah 2:5
Jonah could not separate from his defiance; he was dragged to the bottom with it.
Then God sent the great fish — not as a punishment but as a chamber of mercy, a hollow where Jonah could face his failing, pray, and be restored to life. The fish shows that even in the depths, repentance is still possible.
“Jonah Thrown to the Whale” by Johannes Sadeler I, circa 1582. In the background, another ship can be seen sailing in calm waters, showing that the boat with Jonah was targeted for punishment. Jonah’s head faces the roaring sea, accepting his fate.
Two Fish, One Lesson
Many have the custom to recite Tashlich at a stream that has living fish. Some suggest it is a symbol of good luck while others suggest that the fish “consume” the symbolic sins, carrying them away like a scapegoat.
Placed against the story of Jonah, the image deepens: the fish in the stream greet us at the gates of the Ten Days; the great fish of Jonah meets us at their close. The small fish beneath the ripples hint at an easy parting from our minor failings; the great fish is the last-chance refuge for those who waited too long.
The High Holiday season sets the choice before us:
At the opening, we can cast our sins away and watch them sink while we stand free on the shore. At the closing, if we still cling to them, we risk being dragged under — yet even then there is mercy, a chance to pray and rise again.
The waters of Micah and Jonah teach the same truth: our sins can drown without dragging us under — if we will let them go.
Let us all attempt to separate ourselves from sin, and cast them into the depths of the water and be blessed with a new year of health and opportunity.
“Jonah Spat up by the Whale” by Johannes Sadeler I, circa 1582, with the sun seemingly rising in the background to highlight Jonah living to see a new day. Jonah stares at the heavens seeing that the storm has passed.
In Vayelech, as Moses nears the end of his life, he does not leave the Israelites with swords, maps, or battle plans. He leaves them two witnesses.
“…so that this song may be for Me a witness against the children of Israel.” (Deut. 31:19)
“Take this Book of the Torah… and place it beside the Ark… and it shall be there as a witness against you.” (Deut. 31:26)
Two witnesses. One to sing. One to see.
The Private Witness: A Song to Internalize
The first witness is the Song of Moses. It is not carved in stone or locked in a chest. It is taught to the people, meant to be recited, memorized, carried in the heart and on the lips.
A song reaches places that statutes cannot. It does not merely command; it shapes the soul. It reminds each individual of the covenant — in good times and in hardship — and demands that a person take responsibility for his or her own faithfulness.
This witness lives in the quiet spaces of life, where no physical judge or priest is watching. It whispers: “You know what is right. Act accordingly.”
The Public Witness: A Testament to See
The second witness is the Torah scroll. It is set beside the Ark, in the very center of the national camp. It is the visible, enduring reference point — the community’s constitution.
While the song stirs the conscience, the scroll sets the standard. It unites the people under a single covenantal banner, a guide to which the entire nation can point and say: “This is who we are. This is what we have pledged together.”
Two Responsibilities, One Blessing
Vayelech teaches that the covenant’s blessing flows only when both witnesses are honored:
The private witness — internalizing the principle, carrying it daily.
The public witness — keeping the community anchored to the same course.
A society that prizes the public witness alone risks becoming a hollow bureaucracy. A society that trusts only the private witness descends into scattered individualism.
Blessing comes from both: each person singing the song of covenantal responsibility, and all together respecting the scroll that binds the nation.
The Enduring Lesson — and a Voice from Rabbi Sacks
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks captured this dual dimension of covenant beautifully:
“Covenant is more than law. It is law internalized, turned into song. We need the public voice of law and the private voice of conscience, for only together do they sustain a free society.” — Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, Covenant & Conversation: Deuteronomy, Parashat Vayelech (2008)
On the eve of entering the Land, Moses anchored Israel’s future not in military tactics but in responsibility. The first step toward national blessing was not conquest but character — personal and collective.
The Song calls us to self-discipline. The Scroll calls us to shared fidelity.
When we heed both — the witness in the heart and the witness before the eyes — we walk the road of blessing. Ignore either, and the covenant frays.
That is the enduring message of Vayelech: A people’s future depends on individuals taking responsibility for themselves and on the community staying the course together.
When Winnie-the-Pooh entered the public domain in 2022, the cultural floodgates opened. A once-beloved children’s character, wrapped in honey jars and innocent nostalgia, was immediately remade into a monster. “Blood and Honey” turned Pooh into a savage killer. Games, parodies, and dark pastiches flooded the market. The comforting bear was no longer safe; he had been transformed into a canvas for other people’s fears, cynicism, and jokes.
It feels eerily familiar.
For two thousand years, Jews have been cast into the public domain. Stripped of the right to define their own story, they became available for anyone’s use. And abuse. Once known as the people of the Book, bearers of commandments, prophets, and a covenant, their identity was seized and rewritten. Medieval Christians branded them Christ-killers. Islamic empires reduced them to dhimmis. The Enlightenment caricatured them as rootless and ruthless bankers. In the modern age, they became “colonizers,” “supremacists,” and the avatars of “genocide.”
The Jews never sold the copyright to their name or history, but the world took it anyway. Just as horror producers found amusement in twisting Pooh into a monster, antisemites—left, right, secular, religious—have scribbled their darkest nightmares onto Jewish bodies. Pogroms, expulsions, inquisitions, and now, boycotts and campus rallies all stem from a warped creativity that insists Jews cannot own their own narrative.
Israel’s rebirth was supposed to end this. After all, if you reclaim your home, revive your language, rebuild your state, surely you also reassert your identity. But even here, the appropriation continues. Israel was smeared as “apartheid,” “genocide,” “ethnic cleansing,” “racist,” and “colonial” decades before Hamas launched its latest genocidal war. “Jewish self-determination” is rewritten as oppression. “Defending children” is recast as war crimes. The oldest continuous nation on earth is treated as a villain in someone else’s morality play.
The difference between Winnie-the-Pooh and the Jews is stark. The fictitious character Pooh was released into the public domain by the natural passage of time, his copyright protection simply expiring. The Jews were thrust into the public domain by malice—by the unwillingness of societies to allow them ownership of their story. The Jewish Bible was rebranded as the Old Testament, out of copyright protection. Blood libels took hold on the bleached pages of Jewish foundational documents.
The current Jewish year is 5786. Traditionally, Jews write the date in Hebrew letters like Roman numerals and drop the 5 as being well understood. The letters for 86 spell “Pooh” in Hebrew, so now is as good a time as any to attempt a change that the 1948 reestablishment of the Jewish State did not provide.
One simple action is for everyone to write a large ‘5’ before the date, making clear to themselves and others that their faith predates all others, and continues still.
Challenge every use of the phrase “Promised Land” as a vicious varietal of cultural appropriation, which strips Jewish indigenous people from their divine heritage.
More dramatic is to reclaim Jewish rights on the Temple Mount. Why should the world care about Jewish faith and feelings if the majority of Jews treat the center of its religious devotion as a vestigial organ instead of the beating heart? Are we a living people or a hollow chamber for others to draw upon?
We must not countenance the free license for others to slander, parody, or profit off the Jewish name. The Jewish people are not public property. They are the authors and owners of their own identity—and it is time for them to act as such.
First One Through 