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Foundations First

3 minute read
Straightforward

Foundations matter.

In all we do, whether a new venture, relationship, job, habit, routine, study partner or anything really, early choices are more than mere actions; the foundations express priorities and reflections for the future we envision. In moments of new beginnings, our first decisions are pivotal, shaping the immediate outcome and setting the foundation, tone, and trajectory for all that follows.

As R’ Shlomo Farhi teaches, when you pass a construction site, you can gauge the size of the building from its foundations. No foundation means it’ll be little more than a barn or shed; a regular foundation, a regular house; a big foundation, a big house. When the foundation stretches several plots wide and stories deep, you know you’re looking at the beginnings of a skyscraper. Just as with buildings, the depth of our own foundations reveals the potential scale of what we aim to build.

The Torah powerfully illustrates how influential such choices can be with contrasting stories that open and close the book of Genesis, shaping not just individual lives but generations that followed.

After the Flood, Noah steps out into a ruined world, and the Torah describes him as a man of the field, no longer the man of God he once was – וַיָּחֶל נֹחַ אִישׁ הָאֲדָמָה וַיִּטַּע כָּרֶם. The first thing he does is plant a vineyard, and the story unfolds in that direction, leading to Noah’s vulnerability and a disturbing episode with his son.

As R’ Yerucham Levovitz teaches, Noah’s choice to cultivate wine reflects an inward turn, a desire for immediate comfort at a critical moment for rebuilding. Rather than guiding his family’s spiritual path to rebuilding society and preparing for continuity, Noah’s actions subtly signal personal indulgence and a retreat from responsibility.

Wine is great and is a joyous staple at all Jewish holidays and events, but Noah’s choice to cultivate wine as the first human action after the Flood sets a tone for what follows, establishing a fragile moral foundation rather than a legacy of renewal or strong moral direction.

Instead of entering the new world with a teaching moment for the future, Noah’s choice to plant a vineyard becomes the teaching moment.

The story tells us the consequences of creating an environment where the next generation isn’t given a structured legacy but rather one tainted with difficulty, bringing moral challenges rather than ideals. His choice subtly influences his descendants, setting a tone of missed potential and lack of spiritual preparedness, reflecting a present-focused orientation, seeking immediate gratification and comfort in momentary need.

Whereas Noah’s choice reflects the vulnerability of a short-term-oriented mindset, the Torah sharply contrasts this with the story of Yakov’s family reuniting in Egypt. Before the family arrived in Goshen, Yehuda was sent ahead to make advance preparations – וְאֶת־יְהוּדָה שָׁלַח לְפָנָיו אֶל־יוֹסֵף לְהוֹרֹת לְפָנָיו.

As Rashi comments, Yehuda was sent to establish a forward operating base of Torah learning for the family – לְהוֹרֹת / הוראה / תורה. In other words, Yehuda’s decision to establish a place of learning before entering Egypt is the opposite of Noah’s; a purposeful act aimed at long-term continuity and moral grounding.

Yehuda’s first act before the family enters exile is to establish a fertile foundation for educating future generations, showing foresight and commitment to legacy, and sending a signal of prioritizing spirituality and learning that would guide his descendants. This choice was more than symbolic; it ensured that his family’s identity and values would remain intact in Egypt. For posterity, this initial choice at a new beginning reflects core values, intentions, messages, and a vision reverberating through our communities with a long-term effect that has kept the Jewish People going for millennia.

Psychologists might suggest that initial actions in any journey create identity markers, shaping how we perceive ourselves and our capabilities moving forward. Modern psychology refers to this as identity-driven behavior, where the decisions we make at critical junctures reflect—and shape—our deepest values and aspirations.

Our first choices reveal what we value today and also who we hope to become.

Cultivating a vineyard may have reflected a desire for comfort and relief after trauma, but it was ultimately a self-limiting decision resulting in isolation rather than legacy building. Investing in spiritual infrastructure compounded into a continuity that would sustain his family for generations.

These stories and the values espoused by them offer a blueprint for how we might approach new beginnings, whether life phases, projects, or personal transformations. Short-term relief has mixed long-term consequences, but long-term foundational investments in growth and values yield stability and collective strength.

Yehuda’s example encourages us to prioritize choices that anchor us in our values and set us up for long-term stability—a timeless reminder that what we start with shapes our lives and all who come after us.

In our own lives, the first steps in new beginnings can set a tone for what we wish to cultivate long-term. Invest in what is meaningful and mission-focused at the outset to anchor yourself in values that resonate.

Foundational acts matter because they set the stage for what comes next; strong foundations last beyond lifetimes, echoing in the lives we shape with the values we choose.

Choose foundations that will echo for generations.

Ecology Redux

4 minute read
Intermediate

In today’s intricate and fast-paced global economy, the human footprint on the environment is undeniable. Explosive population growth and intensified resource extraction have had a profound impact on ecosystems, wildlife, and the climate. The data is clear—our activities have an enormous impact that cannot be disputed.

As the world faces unprecedented ecological destruction, many believe humans can reverse or mitigate the damage and actively work towards that goal. Others doubt that we have the power to undo what has been done. But if we can break, we must believe we can repair. The core of this modern dilemma touches on an ancient religious question embedded in the very earliest Jewish traditions.

What is humanity’s responsibility to Creation?

The Torah provides a foundational and unambiguous answer in the very first chapter of Genesis; humans are the foremost species and will conquer the world – וַיְבָרֶךְ אֹתָם אֱלֹהִים וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם אֱלֹהִים פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁהָ.

However, there is a second element that warrants careful consideration.

The Torah soon presents a contrasting image by doing something quite unusual and describes the Creator’s intentions; the Creator places Adam in the Garden of Eden for his benefit, but also to tend and protect it – וַיִּקַּח ה’ אֱלֹהִים אֶת־הָאָדָם וַיַּנִּחֵהוּ בְגַן־עֵדֶן לְעבְדָהּ וּלְשׁמְרָהּ.

This adds a profoundly different approach to the orientation of conquest and dominion.

Our sages teach that the Creator walked through Eden with Adam and pointed out every detail of every plant, taking great pride in Creation, made for humanity to enjoy. But our sages also teach that the Creator gave Adam a warning that accompanied his great gift, to take great care not to spoil it because no one would fix it for him,

In this reading, humans are not overlords of our world, but stewards entrusted with the care and conservation of the world, validating human power to destroy, but equally validating the power to create and protect – הַשָּׁמַיִם שָׁמַיִם לַה וְהָאָרֶץ נָתַן לִבְנֵי־אָדָם.

What’s more, the Book of Jonah is explicit that the Creator cares for animals and plants; the book concludes with God’s reminder that even animals are precious in the divine view, reinforcing the idea that every aspect of Creation is worthy of protection. Our world is a treasure, and every human, every creature, and every plant is an irreplaceable jewel that the Creator has proudly, attentively, and lovingly shaped. Adam is called a custodian, gardener, and guardian to actively participate and recognize the sanctity of protecting what God has given.

The Torah prohibits needless waste and environmental destruction with a rhetorical question: are trees an enemy that can withdraw? כִּי־תָצוּר אֶל־עִיר יָמִים רַבִּים לְהִלָּחֵם עָלֶיהָ לְתפְשָׂהּ לֹא־תַשְׁחִית אֶת־עֵצָהּ לִנְדֹּחַ עָלָיו גַּרְזֶן כִּי מִמֶּנּוּ תֹאכֵל וְאֹתוֹ לֹא תִכְרֹת כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה לָבֹא מִפָּנֶיךָ בַּמָּצוֹר.

The entire body of the laws of Shemitta is about creating an ethic of sustainable land use, a way of relating to our world that goes beyond profit and exploitation.

The imagery of the Shema prayer is specifically about the Land of Israel, but in general, it is explicit about how the Earth is sensitive, impacted by, and responds positively or negatively to human behavior.

One lesson of the Flood story is that every species has its place; Noah’s fatal flaw was not fighting for his world, not believing his world was worth saving. Noah was responsible for ensuring the animals could viably survive, and today, we face a similar, though magnified, challenge in preserving the diversity of life on Earth – מֵהָעוֹף לְמִינֵהוּ וּמִן־הַבְּהֵמָה לְמִינָהּ מִכֹּל רֶמֶשׂ הָאֲדָמָה לְמִינֵהוּ שְׁנַיִם מִכֹּל יָבֹאוּ אֵלֶיךָ לְהַחֲיוֹת.

None of this is a creative or symbolic interpretation. These ancient sources are explicit in even the most superficial reading; our great ancestors could never have imagined the context to understand them the way we do today.

We have the power to destroy our planet.

Our ancestors may not have understood the intricate webs of ecosystems and biodiversity to the extent we do today, but our impact on the environment has been exponentially greater than theirs, and with that comes the moral responsibility to use our knowledge wisely.

The pace of a globalized, hypercapitalist society complicates our personal role. The rapid movement of people, products, and ideas worldwide has led to incredible progress and profound environmental degradation.

We live in an age of organized irresponsibility — systems so vast and tangled that no one feels accountable. We are all inherently deeply enmeshed with the global economic system in a way that disconnects us from the consequences of our actions. We don’t mean for orangutans in Indonesia to die when we buy peanut butter; even worse, not buying isn’t enough to save them. The machine has already become so entrenched and vast that it largely exceeds the power of even any government to do much about it.

It’s not the kind of thing that can be conquered by eliminating a singular external obstacle. There is no head to cut off. However, as our sages have taught, we are not obligated to complete the work, but we are not free to desist from it.

So perhaps we need a religious imperative of responsibility to guide our lifestyles, which will shape the course of human progress. We do not have the religious language or precedent to say that renewable and sustainable practices are a mitzvah or that pollution or deforestation is a sin.

But we can certainly say that profaning the pristine environment the Creator gifted us with is a sacrilege, a desecration of what is holy.

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children. The Jewish concept of the image of God reminds us that we are not isolated entities. We are interconnected and responsible for one another and for all Creation.

For the sake of future generations, the question is not whether we make a difference, but whether we will fulfill our sacred duty to safeguard the Earth that has been entrusted to us.

No one else is coming to save it.

Regulations Redux

4 minute read
Intermediate

Speed limits, traffic lights, parking meters, building codes, dress codes… it’s easy to see rules as restrictive forces in our lives, reducing individual freedom and personal choice.

The Torah is brimming with laws and rules, so it’s a critique one can aim at Judaism with some merit and one that has long been raised by seekers.

There are so many rules, and they stack up fast! Eat this, not that, fast then, do this, you can’t do that, wear this, you can’t wear that. And it goes on and on.

Why can’t we just do whatever we want?

The opening story of Creation about the dawn of humanity centers around the imposition of a rule, don’t eat from this tree, and humanity’s unwillingness to follow the rule – they did it anyway. This first choice to defy a rule reverberates through humanity’s future, highlighting the need for balance that all subsequent laws try to achieve.

There’s a plausible reading here where God is cruel and tantalizing, teasing His creatures by pointing at the beautiful tree they are forbidden to enjoy; the language of prohibition and denial is right there, and it identifies God as the maker and enforcer of a system with arbitrary rules that humans are destined to fail.

But the story that follows about Noah and the Flood is a story about what happens in a world with no rules – total anarchy where everyone is a barbaric savage who pillages and plunders. In Noah and the Flood, we see a world without rules, which leads to chaos and the collapse of civilization, and the unmaking of the world. As our sages teach, where there is no law, there is no justice, and where there is no justice, there is no peace.

No serious person believes that radical anarchy would be sustainable, a total free-for-all where Darwinian principles of survival of the fittest govern the day. Doing anything you want isn’t a utopian dream; it’s a dystopian nightmare. Every human society at all times in all places has understood that humans need rules and norms; ancient and primitive societies had rules and norms we might object to, but they had rules and norms just the same. The existence of rules and norms is a foundation of human society – no one gets to do whatever they want.

Rules form boundaries that enable and facilitate safe human relations by asserting how to interact, preventing infringement on others or abuse or depletion of a thing. Rules are a basic civic requirement.

Beyond the philosophical, this extends to the essential nature of reality; our universe is a universe of rules, built and run according to rules, the laws of physics that govern energy and matter.

The religious aspect of doing whatever we want is based on the notion that observant Jews are missing out. Sure, there are many things observant Jews can’t do or enjoy – bacon, cheeseburgers, lobster, and pepperoni are allegedly some of the big ones.

Yet the Midrash teaches that it is wrong to believe that the Creator denies or prohibits us from the joys of life in any way. Rather, the Torah asks us just to regulate our instincts and stop them from running wild in order to maintain balance in our lives, from greed, hunger, and revenge, to tribal loyalty and sexuality.

Humans break when overindulged – people everywhere abuse and hurt, cheat and steal, get obese and sick, and tirelessly waste years of life on sexual pursuits. These negative impacts aren’t the product of liberty; they’re different forms of addiction and brokenness.

The earliest classical philosophers recognized that freedom without discipline leads to self-destruction; the Torah presents rules that foster virtue and guiding instincts to serve life’s higher purposes.

Like all cultures and societies, the Torah has lots of rules. And like all cultures and societies, some make more sense than others.

But like all rules and laws, they keep us safe and stop us from getting out of control. They help regulate our enjoyment of life; they enable everything else.

Rules like honoring parents remind us that life’s most important bonds need care,  self-restraint, and respect.

The laws of sexuality regulate that family relationships are inappropriate if combined with sexuality.

The laws of Shabbos are endless; you learn something new every time you learn the laws of Shabbos. But the existence of Shabbos changes and elevates how we experience time – it’s not Saturday, a day off work; it’s Shabbos! Moreover, Shabbos has kept generations of families and Jewish communities eating, singing, and praying together for life. Far from deprivation, they enable a life filled with intentional moments and offer positive freedom, transforming ordinary acts into opportunities for spiritual connection.

The Torah permits a carnivorous diet, which could reasonably be construed as unethical; it asks us to limit our diet to animals with certain features that must be slaughtered humanely. If the Creator is the gatekeeper of Creation, it’s not obvious that we should be able to eat living creatures at all! But otherwise, the Torah allows us to enjoy the vast majority of human cuisine prepared in accordance with our culture.

What’s more, when taken together, the rules of kosher keep the Jewish People distinct and separate from the world. They elevate the most basic instinct to consume into a religious act, saturated with meaning and purpose. As the Chasam Sofer notes, the kosher laws open with what Jews can eat, the permission, not the prohibition.

As the Meshech Chochma notes, the Creation story isn’t about a negative restriction on a tree; it’s about a positive command to eat literally everything else in Creation and fill the world with people, broad and permissive, perhaps even indulgent and hedonistic, with one caveat.

The Creator sanctifies human desire with the very first command – the directive to eat and procreate suggests that even our most basic instincts serve God’s purposes. Although there’s a caveat, even several, the Torah’s claim is that God is the gatekeeper of that permission; that’s what “Creator” means. If we accept the premise of a Creator, why would we feel entitled to the entire universe?

Beyond the aspect of a legal obligation, the fact that Jews observe a rule or practice makes it a cultural norm, unspoken but socially agreed on, and therefore sanctified by the collective consciousness of all Jewish People.

The Torah has lots of rules and laws. But those laws come from the Creator of Genesis; the God who creates life, loves life, commands life to thrive, and wants that life to love and enjoy.

We do this thing, we don’t do that thing. No one gets to do whatever they want, that’s not how the world works. We live in societies built on the rule of law, in a rule-based universe.

In a universe built on order, the Torah’s rules transform existence into an offering of meaning. Rules aren’t so bad.

Religious Risk

3 minute read
Straightforward

No one knows the future.

As a result, we organize our lives around taking more or less risk; risk is inextricably linked to navigating the unknown, which is the reason the future is unknown. There is risk in our career path, who we marry, where we live, how we invest, what we consume, and how active we choose to be. The entire financial industry, insurance industry, and arguably the entire religious world are organized around risk; we live our lives in the specter of the consequences of wickedness and wrongdoing.

Is it a good time or a bad time to buy a house or invest? People have been saying it’s one or the other for a long time, and they’ll be right eventually. There is an inherent risk factor in an informed decision, and you’d be foolish to ignore it.

Risk is what’s left over when you think you’ve thought of everything. It can be counterintuitive and easy to ignore, especially when no one else has noticed it either. These can be more or less obvious at different times in our lives – but they’re always there. The riskiest stuff is always what you don’t see coming, and you won’t see anything coming if your eyes are wide shut.

The Flood story highlights another kind of risk – religious risk.

Our typical analysis of the flood story often focuses on Noah, the protagonist, and what he did or didn’t do. On occasion, we talk about what the antagonists did so wrong to corrupt their world so irredeemably. 

But let’s consider something Noah’s audience notably did not do. They didn’t listen, and the world was lost.

The Midrash suggests that for the hundred and twenty years he spent building the Ark, people would ask Noah what he was doing, and he would reply that God had informed him that God was bringing a great flood, and they would laugh him off as some crazy old man. 

Imagine sitting next to a heart surgeon on a long flight, and after getting to know you a little, watching you eat and drink the entire flight, he suggests that your habits predispose you to a greater risk of heart disease if you don’t tighten up your diet and develop a good exercise habit. How arrogant and stupid would you need to be to ignore the doctor and carry on just the same?

The very least you should do is get checked up and consider the gravity of the man on the plane’s word and the severity of the consequences of doing nothing. What if there’s a chance he’s right? That alone should get you to pay more attention.

But Noah’s world did nothing.

On the back of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, we have considered the importance and urgency of Teshuva. We read the story of Jonah, whom God instructs to go to the corrupt city of Nineveh, and the entire Assyrian empire falls in line and makes amends on the back of just one sentence, and the star of Nineveh shines once more. 

In sharp contrast, we read this story, and Noah couldn’t get even one person to see the error in their ways.

God promised not to flood the world ever again when the world wouldn’t listen, but that’s just what God did. Humans didn’t change, they stayed the same! We are the same species of human, and humans are endowed with the property of not listening, and you ought to sit up a little and wonder what you important thing might be ignoring.

There have always been incidences of tragedy – that’s the nature of risk. Who it happens to, and how it happens, is a question of destiny, fate, and providence. But we live in a connected world – there are no local tragedies anymore, and we remember them longer and more clearly. How many times have you seen the World Trade Center footage?

It’s easy and tempting for leaders to blame whatever is culturally in vogue to attack – on a lack of cohesion and unity, on talking in shul, or on women.

And the truth is far scarier. 

It’s that we simply have no idea.

And in the face of that shocking truth, we ought to face the world with a little more humility. As the Mesilas Yesharim explains, self-assessment requires us to accurately gauge where we are and scrutinize where we are going – יְפַשְׁפֵּשׁ בְּמַעֲשָׂיו ויְמַשְׁמֵשׁ בְּמַעֲשָׂיו. If you can’t do that, or worse, think you can but are mistaken, you have a real problem. 

We need to be tuned in to ourselves and our environments, and even in the best case, it’s ideal to have friends and mentors to help guide us along the way – עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וּקְנֵה לְךָ חָבֵר.

We’re probably not a society of corrupt and wicked sinners, and you probably don’t need to listen too closely to anyone with that message. But we can do without excessive pride or self-confidence, and we can always dig a little deeper because what if there’s something we could have done better?

So with good reason, the Rambam’s universal prescription for bad things and hard times is Teshuva; it’s always a good time to make amends and resolve to do better and be better – just in case!

Lift As You Climb

3 minute read
Straightforward

As the Torah begins the Flood story, the Torah introduces Noach as the righteous man of his time, a famously ambiguous description.

It might be a straightforward compliment that Noach was one of the greats, or it might be a backhanded compliment with the faint inference that his generation was so awful that being the best of them isn’t especially praiseworthy.

Noach is a significant figure and the protagonist of an important story. In isolation, the negative characterization might seem a little harsh.

But in the context of the Torah’s story, it matters that we notice who Noach was, and what he did and did not do. The Rambam notes that the Torah leads us through the early trajectory of human history; and how people just couldn’t get it right until eventually, someone did – Avraham.

The Midrash teaches that after God told Noach to start prepping for the Flood, Noach would tell everyone what he was doing and preach to them to abandon their corruption and lawlessness to embrace ethics and morality. His pleas fell on deaf ears, and the world was lost.

In a sense, this reinforces the question. The most humans can do is try in the hope that God helps. We control our efforts only and not the outcome.

Why do we hold Noach’s failure against him?

R’ Yitzchak Berkowitz teaches that Noach’s failing wasn’t in his efforts; it was his methods.

Noach didn’t attempt to understand his society; he separated himself from it. He insulated his family to the extent he couldn’t understand the people around him, and he couldn’t get through. His name literally means “easy” – the easy way out.

We need to ask if we could consider ourselves righteous if we detach entirely from humanity and society. How strong is our belief system truly if we don’t think it could withstand the slightest scrutiny?

The issues of Noach’s day weren’t ideological or philosophical because paganism isn’t a philosophy – it’s ad hoc. The problems of that day were lust, desire, greed, and selfishness.

The tragedy of Noach was that for all his efforts and personal righteousness, he didn’t put in the effort to understand the people around him.

Arguing with people rarely succeeds – and anyone who’s had a significant dispute will tell you that it rarely matters that you’re right.

In stark contrast, Avraham is lauded as someone who was very in tune with how to win the hearts and minds of his society. He fed people and washed them, caring for all people with genuine love and kindness. Pagans were not a threat to him because his beliefs and practices were strong enough to survive contact with them. The Raavad notes how we herald Shem, Ever, and others as righteous, yet they don’t feature in our pantheon of greats because they never went out into the world.

R’ Samson Raphael Hirsch taught that righteous people are not scholars in ivory towers; they actively drive positive change in their communities by living out the Torah’s teachings – בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה בָּעִיר.

Noach, the best man his generation could muster, failed:

וַיִשָּׁאֶר אַךְ־נֹחַ – Only Noach was left… (7:23)

Instead of saying that Noach survived – וַיִשָּׁאֶר נֹחַ, the Torah emphasizes that “only” Noach survived, underscoring the utter devastation and loss in the story. R’ Meir Schapiro highlights that this is the moment Noach understood the cost of his failure, abandoning his peers to their fates without doing all he humanly could.

R’ Josh Joseph notes that we highlight Noach’s failure despite his efforts because the image of Noach alone is terrifying, which leads him to see his remaining days in the depths of alcoholism and depression. R’ Shlomo Farhi notes that Noach’s defining feature was that there was nothing wrong with him – תמים – which is to say that Noach was perfectly adequate, and yet that wasn’t enough.

R’ Jonathan Sacks contrasts this broken figure of Noach, who couldn’t save anyone, with the bold and staunch figure of Avraham, who tried to save everyone. When God informed Avraham that He intended to destroy Sodom, Avraham passionately advocated for Sodom’s survival – a civilization that stood for everything Avraham stood against!

As R’ Yisrael Yehoshua Tronk of Kutno observes, Noach walks with God, which suggests the exclusion of others, whereas we see Avraham as someone who went before God; over, above and beyond הִתְהַלֵּךְ לְפָנַי / אֶת־הָאֱלֹהִים הִתְהַלֶּךְ־נֹחַ.

We need to dig very deep to have a shot at saving others, lifting as we climb, so it resonates with us that Noach could have done more. Perhaps we recognize that’s what it takes in order to live with ourselves.

The Pelagian Heresy

4 minute read
Straightforward

A substantial chunk of humans who have ever lived are familiar with the Adam and Eve story, about the emergence of humans and human consciousness out of primordial space and time.

The nature of the kind of story it is lends itself to a plethora of explanations and interpretations; the motifs and concepts evoked by its imagery are incredibly powerful and convey deep meaning.

Consider just one line of interpretation. After Adam ate the fruit, the original sin – what changed?

It is hard to overstate how enormously consequential both the question and answer are.

In Christianity, the dominant Augustine school teaches that man’s original sin fundamentally corrupted the state of humanity from a state of innocent obedience to God to a state of guilty disobedience, the fall of man. Humans are bad and sinful, and humans need God’s grace to be redeemed. Humans are born in a state of sin, and there is a straight line from this interpretation to the belief that God sent Jesus to die to atone for humanity’s sinful condition.

To Judaism, the Augustine theory is untenable and poses insurmountable theological problems, and so it is critically essential to reject it entirely and understand what our point of departure is.

If a human is fundamentally sinful or evil by nature, then not only is sin inevitable, but the idea of religion or morality is a cruel joke. It turns God into a grotesque caricature – how could a just and fair God punish us for sinning if doing right is simply beyond our power? If humans can’t choose to be good, there’s no free will and no reward or punishment. If we can’t choose, our actions have no value as we don’t control them. If you are fundamentally bad, then it’s not your fault because being good is impossible. Interestingly, a Christian theologian named Pelagius noted these objections and was excommunicated as an arch-heretic for well over a thousand years.

The proper Jewish perspective is that humans are untainted by original sin and freely choose between good and evil. The idea of free choice underpins all the laws and stories of the entire Torah. Arguably, it underpins the whole idea of creation – as much as the almighty God could want anything from an as puny thing as a human, what could we even do for God if we can’t choose?

More fundamentally, the idea that humans are bad and sinful in a perpetual state of evil that is somehow separate from God or God’s master plan is a form of dualism. Dualism is the belief in two opposed powers, which borders on idolatry, contrasted with monotheism, the belief in one singular power.

As R’ Jonathan Sacks teaches, dualistic thinking is immature and dangerous because it means all bad things are caused by something God hates, or the enemy of God, or Satan. In ourselves, it causes terrible and unwarranted guilt and shame, and in societies, it causes fractious rifts among people, who see each other as the enemy and the other.

R’ Shimon Bar Yochai suggested that since God wanted to give the Torah to humans, God might have created humans with two mouths; one for words of Torah and holiness and one for talking and eating. The implied premise of the question is that perhaps dualism is the correct view, and we ought to protect good from being tainted by evil. Yet we know we only have one mouth for all the good and bad, because dualism is the wrong way to look at the world; that’s just not how things work.

We’re not supposed to be angels – God isn’t short of them and doesn’t need our help making more. We might not be much, but we’re precisely what we’re supposed to be. Maybe we have an aspect or inclination to do the wrong thing sometimes or perhaps often – יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו. But it’s not that we are essentially and intrinsically bad; it’s still just an inclination – a יֵצֶר.

This is arguably the point of the flood story, which begins and ends with God lamenting how bad people can be. It’s not that humans stopped being bad; it’s that God recognizes that human badness is inseparable from the other things God wants from us. We can learn to resist and even overcome this inclination, which is the entire point of creation, Judaism, and the Torah.

One of the most influential ideas in Judaism, mentioned in the book of Job and popularized by the Baal Shem Tov, is the idea that our souls are a small fragment of godliness, and God as well in some sense – חלק אלוה ממעל. This motif is formidable – not only is God a piece of us, but equally, we are a piece of God.

There is a part of the soul, whatever it may be, that is fundamentally pure and incorruptible – אֱלֹהַי, נְשָׁמָה שֶׁנָּתַתָּ‏ בִּי טְהוֹרָה הִיא.

Adam sinned, sin exists, and we make mistakes. But it’s not that we are bad because of dualism; it’s because of the duality of all things. What changed wasn’t that Adam became bad, but in eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, he became more knowledgeable and aware of good and evil, of guilt and consequences.

There is a little bit of something in everything. In the good, there is some bad, and in the bad, there is some good. There is fullness in the emptiness, sadness in the happiness. They are complementary parts of a reciprocal interaction that are present in all things, including ourselves.

We take the good with the bad.

Sensitivity to All Creatures

4 minute read
Intermediate

From the dawn of humanity, animals have served essential roles in agriculture, sustenance, and companionship. The Torah goes further than permitting such use, outlining clear laws that limit human dominion over animals, safeguarding their welfare. Nowhere is this more evident than in the kosher laws, which embed compassion in every interaction, from farming to food preparation.

The Torah categorically prohibits human mistreatment of animals, with a comprehensive list of laws designed to minimize animal suffering resulting from human interaction.

As it relates to food, from field to table, there is a vast corpus of rules that governs everything we put into our mouths and everything we don’t; and one of the defining features of observant Judaism is the laws of kosher, in particular, the rules concerning how we obtain edible meat.

R’ Avraham Yitzchak Kook suggests that, among other reasons, the Torah’s laws of kosher meat consistently demonstrate an underlying principle that humans ought to respect the life and well-being of all non-human creatures.

Consider that kosher slaughter, the most obviously exploitative use of animal life, is heavily regulated; the Torah requires the blade to be razor-sharp for a smooth cut and must be concealed from the animal throughout, among many other laws that prevent unnecessary animal distress. The Midrash rhetorically asks what possible difference it could make to God whether an animal dies by a cut in the front of its neck or the back; it concludes that it doesn’t make a difference to God so much as it makes a difference to the human, since a front cut is more humane, and refines the humans who observe this law.

Kosher laws reflect a holistic respect for life that extends even beyond death, marking each step with sensitivity. The requirement to bury blood, for instance, serves as a final reverence, echoing the belief that blood carries the essence of life:

וְשָׁפַךְ אֶת-דָּמוֹ, וְכִסָּהוּ בֶּעָפָר – Pour out the blood, and cover it with dust. (17:13)

In the Torah’s conception, blood is the vehicle for the essence and soul of identity, personality, and vitality, warranting sensitive handling and treatment; it follows that it is disrespectful and inappropriate to consume blood:

אַךְ-בָּשָׂר, בְּנַפְשׁוֹ דָמוֹ לֹא תֹאכֵלוּ – Eat only the meat; do not consume the blood… (9:4)

When we talk about the blood draining from someone’s face, or the lifeblood of an organization, we’re using the same kind of imagery as the Torah, where blood is the seat and symbol of life and vitality, which may help us understand why blood is a central element of all the sacrificial rituals:

כִּי נֶפֶשׁ הַבָּשָׂר, בַּדָּם הִוא, וַאֲנִי נְתַתִּיו לָכֶם עַל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ, לְכַפֵּר עַל-נַפְשֹׁתֵיכֶם: כִּי-הַדָּם הוּא, בַּנֶּפֶשׁ יְכַפֵּר – For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that atones because of the life. (17:11)

The Torah unambiguously permits humans to consume a carnivorous diet, but as Nechama Leibowitz points out, the Torah only reluctantly allows humans to eat meat after the Flood story. As much as humans are the apex predator on Earth, God’s compassion goes far beyond humans – וְהָאָרֶץ נָתַן לִבְנֵי-אָדָם / טוֹב ה’ לַכֹּל וְרַחֲמָיו עַל כָּל מַעֲשָׂיו.

The distinction between right and wrong, good and evil, purity and defilement, the sacred and the profane, is essential in Judaism. Beyond Judaism, navigating regulations is part of living and working in a civilized society. The laws of kosher elevate the simple act of eating into a reminder and religious ritual to exercise self-control over our most basic, primal instincts, even the ones to hunt and gather food.

While animals do not possess sentience to understand the notion that life is a sacred thing, humans are not like other animals, and the Torah gives us laws to remind us that there is a difference. R’ Shlomo Farhi teaches that the Torah’s boundaries should instill sensitivity and reverence for life. Our abilities, choices, rights, strength, and power are not trump cards; just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

You don’t need to become a vegan; you can still enjoy your steak and ribs. But you should recognize the Torah’s concern for all creatures and not just humans, because the two are linked; someone who is cruel to animals will be cruel to people.

In a largely positive trend, our host cultures have woken up to animal cruelty in recent decades, but we have a proud tradition that is millennia older; the Torah instituted the first systematic legislation prohibiting animal cruelty and mandating humane treatment long ago.

Judaism is in constant dialogue with its surroundings, and we may have to get more familiar with our environment to navigate it properly. On the one end, the Torah’s laws don’t explicitly regulate intensive factory farming, but it’s a product of modern business practices that raises many animal welfare issues, and the relevant parties should be receptive to calibrating how they can do better. On the other end, the tradition of kosher slaughter is in jeopardy in an increasing number of jurisdictions, labeled as backward and cruel; there are some important organizations working tirelessly to protect our tradition that deserve your support.

The Torah has regulated human interaction with animals for thousands of years; the laws of kosher teach us compassion and sensitivity to other creatures in a powerful framework that predates, and in some cases surpasses, modern welfare standards.

We should be proud of our heritage.

Language Redux

4 minute read
Straightforward

Humans are the apex predator on Earth.

We share this planet with thousands of species and trillions of organisms, and none but humans carry a lasting multi-generational record of knowledge of any obvious consequence. And yet, a feral human being left alone in the woods from birth to death kept separate and alive, would be not much more than an ape; our knowledge isn’t because humans are smart.

It’s because we speak – מְדַבֵּר.

We communicate and cooperate with others through language, giving us a formidable advantage in forming groups, sharing information, and pooling workloads and specializations. Language is the mechanism by which the aggregated knowledge of human culture is transmitted, actualizing our intelligence and self-awareness, transcending separate biological organisms, and becoming one informational organism. With language, we have formed societies and built civilizations; developed science and medicine, literature and philosophy.

With language, knowledge does not fade; we can learn from the experiences of others. Without learning everything from scratch, we can use an existing knowledge base built by others to learn new things and make incrementally progressive discoveries. As one writer put it, a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies; the man who never reads lives only once.

Language doesn’t just affect how we relate to each other; it affects how we relate to ourselves. We make important decisions based on thoughts and feelings influenced by words on a page or conversations with others. It has been said that with one glance at a book, you can hear the voice of another person – perhaps someone gone for millennia – speaking across the ages clearly and directly in your mind.

Considering the formidable power of communication, it follows that the Torah holds it in the highest esteem; because language is magical. Indeed, the fabric of Creation is woven with words:

וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹקים, יְהִי אוֹר; וַיְהִי-אוֹר – God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. (1:3)

The Hebrew root word for “thing” and “word” is identical – דַבֵּר / דָבָר. R’ Moshe Shapiro notes that for God –  and people of integrity! – there is no distinction; giving your word creates a new reality, and a word becomes a thing. R’ Shlomo Farhi points out the obvious destruction that ensues from saying one thing but meaning and doing something else entirely.

R’ Jonathan Sacks notes that humans use language to create things as well. The notion of a contract or agreement is a performative utterance – things that people say to create something that wasn’t there before; a relationship of mutual commitment between people, created through speech. Whether it’s God giving us the Torah or a husband marrying his wife, relationships are fundamental to Judaism. We can only build relationships and civilizations with each other when we can make commitments through language.

Recognizing the influential hold language has over us, the Torah emphasizes an abundance of caution and heavily regulates how we use language: the laws of gossip and the metzora; and the incident where Miriam and Ahron challenged Moshe; among others. Even the Torah’s choice of words about the animals that boarded the Ark is careful and measured:

מִכֹּל הַבְּהֵמָה הַטְּהוֹרָה, תִּקַּח-לְךָ שִׁבְעָה שִׁבְעָה–אִישׁ וְאִשְׁתּוֹ; וּמִן-הַבְּהֵמָה אֲשֶׁר לֹא טְהֹרָה הִוא, שְׁנַיִם-אִישׁ וְאִשְׁתּוֹ – Of every clean creature, take seven and seven, each with their mate; and of the creatures that are not clean two, each with their mate. (7:2)

The Gemara notes that instead of using the more accurate and concise expression of “impure,” the Torah utilizes extra ink and space to articulate itself more positively – “that are not clean” – אֲשֶׁר לֹא טְהֹרָה הִוא. While possibly hyperbolic, the Lubavitcher Rebbe would refer to death as “the opposite of life”; and hospital infirmaries as “places of healing.”

The Torah cautions us of the power of language repeatedly in more general settings:

לֹא-תֵלֵךְ רָכִיל בְּעַמֶּיךָ, לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל-דַּם רֵעֶךָ: אֲנִי, ה – Do not allow a gossiper to mingle among the people; do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor: I am Hashem. (19:16)

The Torah instructs us broadly not to hurt, humiliate, deceive, or cause another person any emotional distress:

וְלֹא תוֹנוּ אִישׁ אֶת-עֲמִיתוֹ, וְיָרֵאתָ מֵאֱלֹקיךָ: כִּי אֲנִי ה, אֱלֹקיכֶם – Do not wrong one another; instead, you should fear your God; for I am Hashem. (25:27)

Interestingly, both these laws end with “I am Hashem” – evoking the concept of emulating what God does; which suggests that just as God constructively uses language to create – שהכל נהיה בדברו  – so must we – אֲנִי ה. The Lubavitcher Rebbe taught that as much as God creates with words, so do humans.

R’ Shlomo Freifeld emphasized that God brings life to all, and it is no exaggeration that our words can inject life into the people we encounter – אַתָּה מְחַיֵּה אֶת כֻּלָּם.

The Gemara teaches that verbal abuse is arguably worse than theft; you can never take back your words, but at least a thief can return the money!

The idea that language influences and impacts the world around us is the foundation of the laws of vows, which are significant enough that we open the Yom Kippur services at Kol Nidrei by addressing them.

Our sages praise people whose words God concurs with, one of which is the language of repentance. Words have the power to activate a force that predates Creation; Moshe intercedes on behalf of the Jewish People for the calamitous Golden Calf, and God forgives them specifically because Moshe asked – וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ סָלַחְתִּי כִּדְבָרֶךָ.

Of course, one major caveat to harmful speech is intent. If sharing negative information has a constructive and beneficial purpose that may prevent harm or injustice, there is no prohibition, and there might even be an obligation to protect your neighbor by conveying the information – לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל-דַּם רֵעֶךָ.

As R’ Jonathan Sacks powerfully said, no soul was ever saved by hate; no truth was ever proved by violence; no redemption was ever brought by holy war.

Rather than hurt and humiliate, let’s use our language to educate, help and heal; because words and ideas have the power to change the world.

They’re the only thing that ever has.

Under Scrutiny

3 minute read
Intermediate

While the Torah speaks about God, its central lessons are often about human conduct, teaching us to imitate Divine mercy in our own judgments and interactions. This is in large part because we cannot comprehend what God is, only what God does.

One of Judaism’s most fundamental beliefs is that we can change through the ability to repent and make amends – Teshuva – which presupposes that, to some extent, God can also change. While this may sound absurd at first, it’s quite benign. We believe that with prayer, repentance, and charity, God might act with compassionate mercy in lieu of strict justice.

If we consider how God reframes strict judgment in response to human flaws, we might find a powerful model for handling our own relationships and conflicts with greater compassion.

The Torah’s stated cause for the great Flood was a human tendency towards evil:

וַיַּרְא ה, כִּי רַבָּה רָעַת הָאָדָם בָּאָרֶץ, וְכָל-יֵצֶר מַחְשְׁבֹת לִבּוֹ, רַק רַע כָּל-הַיּוֹם –  Hashem saw the great evil of humans on Earth, and that every imagination of his heart’s intent was only ever evil. (6:5)

After the great Flood, God laments the destruction and devastation, and resolves not destroy life ever again:

וַיֹּאמֶר ה אֶל-לִבּוֹ לֹא-אֹסִף לְקַלֵּל עוֹד אֶת-הָאֲדָמָה בַּעֲבוּר הָאָדָם, כִּי יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו; וְלֹא-אֹסִף עוֹד לְהַכּוֹת אֶת-כָּל-חַי, כַּאֲשֶׁר עָשִׂיתִי – Hashem said in His heart: “I will not curse the ground again for humanity’s sake; because the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every living thing, as I have just done.” (8:21)

What changed between the beginning and end of the Flood?

Quite remarkably, it appears that nothing about human nature changed after the Flood; humanity was and remains flawed – יֵצֶר מַחְשְׁבֹת לִבּוֹ, רַק רַע כָּל-הַיּוֹם / כִּי יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו. But significantly, God’s own perspective shifts, suggesting that mercy does not require an external change but an internal choice to reframe the same reality differently.

This non-change also happens when the Jewish People misguidedly craft the Golden Calf, upon which God states He can no longer tolerate their obstinate rigidity:

כִּי לֹא אֶעֱלֶה בְּקִרְבְּךָ, כִּי עַם-קְשֵׁה-עֹרֶף אַתָּה פֶּן-אֲכֶלְךָ בַּדָּרֶךְ – “I will not go up with you; because you are a stiff-necked people; otherwise I might destroy you on the way!” (33:3)

Yet Moshe appeals for God’s compassion and mercy based on that very same characteristic:

וַיֹּאמֶר אִם-נָא מָצָאתִי חֵן בְּעֵינֶיךָ, אֲדֹנָי, יֵלֶךְ-נָא אֲדֹנָי, בְּקִרְבֵּנוּ:  כִּי עַם-קְשֵׁה-עֹרֶף הוּא, וְסָלַחְתָּ לַעֲוֹנֵנוּ וּלְחַטָּאתֵנוּ וּנְחַלְתָּנוּ – And he said: “If I have found favor in your sight, Hashem, please go in our midst; because this is a stiff-necked people; and forgive our error and sin, and take us as Your inheritance.” (34:9)

While we cannot know God as God is, we come closer by imitating with mercy in action. In both instances, humans do not earn forgiveness through Teshuva, because they have not changed. We are prone to error and don’t always learn from our mistakes.

In the story of Noach, the Torah does something extremely unusual narrates God’s thought process – וַיֹּאמֶר ה אֶל-לִבּוֹ. This soliloquy serves as a reminder that mercy begins with self-reflection; by engaging in our own inner dialogues, we can choose to shift from judgment to compassion, reinterpreting others’ actions with understanding rather than critique.

We can’t change other people. Sometimes they won’t ever make amends and won’t fix what they broke. But we can still change the lens we use to scrutinize them. In today’s culture of instant feedback and snap judgment with swipes and taps, it’s easy to fall into a cycle of harsh judgment without considering the other’s humanity. Our capacity to exercise compassionate mercy can help us resist dismissing others as irredeemable and instead view their actions with hope for growth.

In the same way that God can choose to judge favorably out of a commitment to life, we can do the same.

God reframes expectations and judgments, and we can approach others’ flaws in the same way, with a commitment to mercy rather than strict judgment.

The same flaws we condemn can be the very reason to forgive.

Righteous Rebels

3 minute read
Intermediate

The book of Bereishis is about the evolution of human justice and the evolving dynamic of God’s relationship with people.

While Bereishis opens with Noah’s righteousness in contrast to his corrupt surroundings, it quickly shifts to Avraham’s model, who redefines righteousness as a proactive and outward-facing commitment to justice.

Avraham is considered the first prototype of the kind of person God wanted people to behave like, and it is his descendants that would go on to receive the Torah.

But Noah was righteous too; why is Noah not held up as a model of what a good person looks like?

R’ Shlomo Farhi explains that our role models followed their internal moral compasses, even when it led them to the point of directly questioning God outright.

When Noah left the Ark, everything and everyone was gone. Noah took in the scale of desolation and loss, and questioned God – where was God’s mercy all this time? The Zohar describes God’s stunning reply to Noah – when God had told him the flood was coming and all would be lost, where was Noah’s mercy for the world he had known?

Our forefathers understood that righteousness entails advocating for justice, even when faced with divine judgment. This reflects the Jewish ideal that questioning perceived injustices is not merely allowed but expected of righteous heroes. In sharp contrast to Noah, when God announced that Sodom would be destroyed, Avraham questioned God’s justice. When God threatened to destroy the Jewish people after they danced around the Golden Calf, Moshe questioned God’s justice. Throughout history, our heroes have challenged God when something felt wrong.

Even if unsuccessful, they are still fundamentally correct. Avraham stood up for pagan barbarians, and said that if God is merciful and good, then that ought to be true even towards the wicked! Our heroes’ internal moral compasses tell them that something is wrong, and they follow through.

Noah’s silence in the face of impending destruction wasn’t just acceptance; it was a surrender, an abandonment of the world around him to its fate.

This kind of acceptance isn’t a feature – it’s a critical flaw. Noah agreed that everything and everyone was bad, and that they deserved what was coming. R’ Yisrael Salanter says that a hidden tzadik is no tzadik at all. A tzadik whose actions remain hidden cannot inspire or guide others, rendering their righteousness insular, and ultimately ineffective for his community, and therefore, fatally incomplete. In contrast, figures like Avraham and Moshe embody public righteousness, challenging God openly as a model for the community.

Or, as our sages challenge us, if I am only for myself, what am I?

Jewish tradition teaches that the truly righteous and saintly, like Avraham and Moshe, look outward, aiming to elevate the collective good rather than solely ensuring personal integrity. It is this outward vision that distinguishes the Jewish concept of righteousness from that of other traditions.

Maybe that’s why he never seems to make the list of truly righteous people. It may also be why he planted vineyards and turned to alcohol and solitude. The magnitude of his missed opportunity was enormous.

Questioning divine edicts is an essential, almost sacred, trait in Jewish tradition, one that empowers believers to hold even God accountable to His attributes of justice and mercy.

As the Rambam clarifies, prophecies of doom are conditional, meant to inspire people toward repentance. Just because God Himself says something, does not mean we must accept it – ותשובה ותפילה וצדקה מעבירין את רוע הגזרה. The truly righteous therefore act as agents of change, echoing God’s message in both actions and words.

Jewish heroes wrestle with the divine, not from a place of defiance, but out of a deep dedication to ultimate good.

Words and Worth

2 minute read
Straightforward

The Torah’s Flood narrative is rich with ethical and spiritual messages, inviting us to reconsider what it means to live with righteousness, justice, and moral responsibility.

One critical insight our sages derived from the Flood narrative is the profound impact of language, recognizing that our words shape how we perceive ourselves and others.

One of the messages that our sages understood is the importance of careful speech. They derived this from, among numerous other instances, the Torah’s use of language discussing the different animals that came to board the Ark. Rather than the accurate and concise form of pure and impure – טהור / טמא – the Torah uses cumbersome and verbose language to avoid a word with negative connotations, subtly teaching the importance of using language that uplifts rather than diminishes.

Yet, intriguingly, when the Torah introduces Noah, the tone seems less delicate:

Yet the Torah’s opening narrative is not overly complimentary towards Noah:

נֹחַ אִישׁ צַדִּיק תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹרֹתָיו – Noah was righteous; he was flawless in his day… (6:9)

In fact, the Creator spoke to Noah in a similar way:

כִּי־אֹתְךָ רָאִיתִי צַדִּיק לְפָנַי בַּדּוֹר הַזֶּה – “I have found you alone to be righteous in this generation…” (7:1)

Our sages detected ambiguity here: is the Torah commending Noah’s greatness or subtly diminishing it? Was Noah a genuinely righteous person by all standards and be found righteous in any era, or was he merely the best among a generation in moral decline, but only relative to his times, and he might not have stood out in others? In a degenerate age, you take what you can get, the thinking goes.

But this raises a powerful question.

Our sages used this story to teach us to speak with care, so why would they interpret an ambiguous phrase unfavorably in this very story?

As R’ Shlomo Farhi explains, it’s not our sages who took it as a criticism; Noah himself did. The Zohar teaches that Noah interpreted God’s words as faint praise, sensing that God did not truly see him as great and was making do with whatever was available.

Noah’s perception of faint praise became a limiting belief, a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy’ in modern psychological terms. This belief shaped his actions, weakening his resolve to influence others, and led to passivity. Noah’s interpretation of God’s words as criticism led him to believe he could never be more than ‘good enough,’ thus preventing him from striving to influence others.

Because of this belief, Noah became passive. He did not try to save or influence his community, nor did he pray on their behalf. In the Torah’s words, he was only flawless – תָּמִים. There was nothing wrong with him, but in another age, that may not have been enough. Noah had the potential to become more than merely blameless, but his belief that God viewed him as lacking limited his growth.

Or, to put it sharply as R’ Yisrael Salanter does, a hidden tzadik is no tzadik at all.

When words can be taken in two ways, one hurtful and one harmless, choose the kinder interpretation. Often, that’s the one intended.

This narrative illustrates the profound impact of language and self-perception. When we diminish ourselves, we may avoid mistakes yet fail to reach our potential or lift those around us. True responsibility, however, demands more. It is not enough to be flawless – we must be proactive forces for goodness.

Each of us has the power to influence others for the better. Yet, like Noah, how often do we hold back, thinking our efforts won’t make a difference?