Parashat Acharei Mot - Kedoshim: Building Community in a Time of Division

Parashat Acharei Mot brings us back to a biblical moment when Yom Kippur was observed in a way that allows us to almost “see the words” and imagine the scene unfolding before us. The entire people gathered. The High Priest, Aaron, standing before two male goats that appeared identical—one designated for God, the other sent into the wilderness, symbolically carrying the failures of the people.

It is striking to imagine that on the holiest day of the year, destiny seemed to be decided by what looked like a drawing of lots. Two animals placed side by side, and a tablet drawn that determined which would be offered and which would be sent away into desolation. Yet tradition makes clear that this was not an act of superstition. It was a teaching moment—a reminder that even when events seem random, what ultimately matters is the moral awareness we cultivate within ourselves.

One small animal. An entire people seeking forgiveness. What message lies behind this powerful image?

The medieval sage Nachmanides offers an interpretation that sheds light on the symbolism of the ritual.

In Hebrew, the word sa’ir means “male goat,” but it can also mean “hairy.” That dual meaning allows a symbolic link to Esav, who in the book of Genesis is described as a hairy man. Esav came to represent, in collective memory, the opposite of his brother Jacob: one associated with impulse and roughness, the other with reflection and integrity.

For generations, we learned to think in these sharp contrasts—the righteous versus the flawed, the noble versus the corrupt. But Nachmanides introduces a far more unsettling and honest reading. When the text states that the goat will carry the people’s iniquities, he suggests that the Hebrew word Avonotam (their iniquities) can be split in a way that allows us to read not only “iniquities,” (Avon) but also tam—“whole” or “upright,” the very word used to describe Jacob. With that interpretive move, he forces us to face an uncomfortable truth: there are no absolute saints and no exclusive villains. We all carry flaws. We all, at times, embody the very things we wish to cast away.

It is all too easy to believe that wrongdoing belongs somewhere else—that the blame rests squarely on someone else’s shoulders. We grow accustomed to sending the “other” into the wilderness of accusation, convincing ourselves that we are free of responsibility. But the Torah gently warns us that this way of thinking is a slippery slope, one that ultimately harms us all.

The story of Jacob and Esav itself reminds us that after years of distance and tension, the brothers eventually embraced. That embrace, often overshadowed by their earlier rivalry, holds a profound lesson: reconciliation becomes possible when we stop thinking in rigid categories and begin to recognize the humanity of the person standing across from us.

This message deepens when we turn to Parashat Kedoshim. There, holiness is not presented as an abstract concept reserved for a select few. It is offered as a concrete way of living. “You shall be holy,” we are told—not to separate ourselves from the world, but to engage it more fully. “Love your neighbor as yourself” is not poetic language; it is a moral demand that reaches into every corner of daily life.

Holiness does not live in sacred objects alone. It lives in human behavior. It means telling the truth, refusing deceit, and refusing to stand idly by when others suffer. It means understanding that every action, no matter how small, carries weight. Our choices shape the world around us—for better or for worse.

In a time when the world seems increasingly divided, these teachings resonate with renewed urgency. We live in an age where violence is not only physical but verbal and ideological. There is terrorism carried out with weapons, and there is also a form of media-driven terrorism that manipulates language and images, twisting reality until fear becomes a tool of control. Words, after all, can cut just as deeply as swords.

In the Middle East, ongoing tensions remind us that the survival of the State of Israel is not merely an abstract political issue—it is a matter of continuity, identity, and historical resilience. Israel represents the enduring presence of a people who refused to disappear, even when others sought their destruction. The violence that afflicts the region does not arise in a vacuum; in many cases, it is sustained by external support from state actors who fuel instability, among them Iran, whose backing of violent organizations prolongs suffering and undermines hopes for a safer future.

In the face of such realities, the call is not toward hatred or despair, but toward moral clarity. Demanding an end to terrorism—in all its forms—is not an act of vengeance but of responsibility. Defending life, dignity, and the possibility of coexistence is a duty that transcends borders.

Yet the Torah does not only challenge us in the face of external threats. It also calls us to examine ourselves from within. Divisions and discrimination within Jewish life stand in stark contrast to the values at the heart of our tradition. Judaism was never built on uniformity or enforced consensus. From its earliest days, it thrived on debate, interpretation, and the respectful exchange of differing views.

The idea of a single, rigid way of thinking runs counter to the very spirit that sustained Jewish life across generations. Diversity of thought is not a weakness—it is one of our greatest strengths. When differing voices are heard with respect, communities grow stronger. The long tradition of disagreement among scholars reminds us that unity does not require sameness; it requires mutual dignity.

In today’s world, saturated with cameras, screens, and constant observation, it sometimes feels as though every move we make is being watched. Technology tracks our movements, records our words, and preserves our actions. But beyond this technological gaze lies something deeper—a moral awareness that our actions carry meaning beyond the moment.

One of the names for God is Hamakom, “The Place.” Not because God exists within the world, but because the world exists within God. This powerful image reminds us that our lives unfold within a moral universe larger than ourselves. We are never entirely alone in our choices. Every action leaves a trace. Every decision ripples outward.

We long to believe that our actions matter—that our behavior is not ignored, that justice is not merely theoretical. The holiness the Torah demands is an invitation to live with awareness, to recognize that even the smallest act can help build—or erode—the foundation of community.

In times of uncertainty, building community becomes sacred work. When the world tilts toward fragmentation, the answer cannot be withdrawal or suspicion alone. The survival of the Jewish people has always depended on the ability to gather, to study together, to support the vulnerable, and to share responsibility. Time and again, history has shown that we are stronger together than we are apart.

Building community does not mean erasing differences; it means learning to live alongside them. It means recognizing that even when others think differently, they remain part of the same shared story. It means choosing collective responsibility over individual comfort—choosing to meet one another halfway rather than dig in our heels.

The ritual of the two goats teaches a timeless lesson: when one side is declared entirely good and the other entirely evil, no one truly survives. Life is not sustained by simplistic absolutes but by the courage to recognize our own shortcomings and strive to improve. True repair does not come from casting others aside, but from transforming how we relate to one another.

Today, we no longer enact those ancient rituals in their original form. What we need instead is to recover their deeper meaning—the courage to examine ourselves honestly, to acknowledge our shadows, and to take responsibility for shaping a better future.

Jewish history is filled with moments that seemed insurmountable. Yet generation after generation, the people chose to move forward. That choice was never a matter of luck or chance. It was rooted in commitment—to Torah, to mitzvot, and to mutual responsibility that binds individuals into a people.

This is not about denying pain or ignoring danger. It is about affirming life with determination, holding fast to human dignity even in uncertain times, and choosing ethical responsibility when despair might seem like the easier road.

At one time or another, each of us has been one of those goats. Each of us carries mistakes and scars. But each of us also holds the capacity to learn, to repair, and to build something new. We are not doomed to repeat the same story if we are willing to write a different ending.

Today, we do not need to keep repeating stories of exile and division. We need to write stories of encounter, shared responsibility, and active hope. Holiness is not the privilege of a chosen few—it is a collective task, built day by day through our actions.

And in that task, the future of the people of Israel, the hope for peace in the Middle East, and the strength of Jewish communities everywhere depend on our willingness to choose life—again and again, against the odds, and with unwavering resolve.

Shabbat Shalom uMevorach

Rabbi Gustavo Geier