Parashat Behar - Bechukotai: Social consciousness as a path to peace

This week, we read a double Torah portion: Behar – Bechukotai. The text confronts us with laws that, at first glance, seem outdated or impractical: letting the land rest every seventh year, setting captives free in the fiftieth, returning property to its original owners. Then come blessings and warnings: abundance if the laws are followed, hardship if they are ignored.

But what emerges is a bold ethical vision: the land is not ours to possess forever. Power is never permanent. The endless drive to accumulate is a moral illness. And most importantly: every human being, no matter how far they’ve fallen, no matter their debt or how deeply they’re trapped in a broken system, deserves the chance to begin again.

In a world where inequality is deepening, where millions are stripped of land, housing, work, or dignity, this message rings out as a powerful ethical cry.

Behar teaches us that true well-being cannot be built on another’s suffering, and that justice must be more than an idea.It needs practical tools for repair.

When nations are in pain, when fear becomes routine, the Torah asks:

Are you willing to let go of your certainties to make space for justice?

Can you allow the land and your ambition to rest? Can you return to others what they need to rebuild their lives?

These are not quiet texts. They push us to act with integrity and compassion. They say: do not forget the debtor. Do not commodify the fallen. Do not lose your moral compass chasing endless growth.

There’s a story about the Kotzker Rebbe. He was once asked which is holier: studying Torah or helping another person?

He answered, without missing a beat:

“What’s the point of studying Torah if you can’t hear someone knocking at your door because you’re so wrapped up in the words?”

This story reminds us: the most sacred text may sometimes be the face of the person before you.

In this week’s parashot, Behar and Bechukotai, the Torah tells us just that:

Time, land, and relationships must be shaped not by dominance, but by shared responsibility and human sensitivity.

Bechukotai opens with a promise that echoes through time:

“If you walk in My statutes and keep My commandments... I will send rain in its season, the land will yield its harvest, the trees will bear fruit. You will eat your fill and dwell securely. I will bring peace to the land. You will sleep without fear. No sword shall pass through your land.” (Leviticus 26:1–6)

Let’s pause on that verse: וְנָתַתִּ֤י שָׁלוֹם֙ בָּאָ֔רֶץ – “I will grant peace in the land.”

There is no room left to speak or write about anything else.

We are approaching day 600 since October 7th, a descent into unprecedented madness that shows no sign of ending.

The wound remains open and bleeding from that brutal terrorist attack against thousands of Israelis: the murders, the rapes, the abductions. And the war that has followed, so far almost futile, not only has failed to bring the hostages home, it has destroyed everything:

life itself, the land, both ours and theirs, hope, dignity, possibility… everything.

Rashi explains: “You might say, ‘Well, we have food and drink, but without peace, it’s all worthless.’ So the Torah adds: ‘I will bring peace.’ From here we learn: peace is worth everything.”

And Ibn Ezra adds something crucial: “I will bring peace... among you.”

External peace means little if we don’t have it within our people.

Petty politics is tearing us apart, both as a nation and as the State of Israel and not only in Israel but in our country, the United States of America. Power games and ego-driven leadership lead to tragedy. And the truth is, no one feels at peace today.

We need peace in our society, within our communities, and between those who claim to lead us.

Today, we can read these verses not as divine punishments, but as social warnings:

When we break our bonds with one another, when we ignore another’s suffering, the land withers, communities crumble, fear takes root. And this message, perhaps more than ever, is directed at us, at our people, and at those entrusted with the destiny of the State of Israel.

Since October 7th, we have been living with a deep wound. The grief, the violence, the uncertainty over whether our values can carry us through.

And as if that weren’t enough, this week brought another devastating blow:

The brutal murder of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky, two young women, one Germain and the other American that worked at the Israelu embassy in Washington D.C. diplomats, outside the Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C. They were killed in cold blood in the name of a slogan that claims to stand for liberation, but in this case was used to justify hatred and inhuman cruelty.

Sarah and Yaron were bridge-builders, committed to peace and public service. What possible purpose could their murder serve?

Their deaths shake us to the core, not only because of the brutality, but because they were killed for being who they were, where they were, and in the name of a lie that hides its violence behind empty slogans.

And so we must ask, with trembling hearts: Is there still room for the Jewish people in a world that grows colder, more deaf, more indifferent, or openly hostile?

Right now, we are living with a growing sense of insecurity, both in Israel and throughout the diaspora, especially in countries where we once believed we were safe.

We feel more isolated. More vulnerable. Sometimes even questioned simply for existing.

And the fear grows.

We wonder: do our voices matter? Do our lives count?

That’s why we need, more than ever, to return to our roots, to texts that remind us to stop, to share, to repair.

If the jubilee year is not a fantasy, but a reminder that everything can begin anew, then I choose to believe that the day will come when Jerusalem is no longer a symbol of conflict, but of possibility.

This Sunday evening marks Yom Yerushalayim.

Beyond the politics, let’s ask: What does “Jerusalem” mean to us today?

To me, it remains, and I believe it always will be, the heart of the Jewish people.

A city that must make room for all who genuinely seek peace, and who recognize the dignity of others.

Bechukotai closes the book of Leviticus with a stark reminder:

When relationships are abandoned and mutual care fades, the land becomes barren, and history repeats itself again and again with suffering.

But there’s also a promise: If we walk the path of humanity, new springs will bloom.

Shabbat Shalom.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Rabbi Gustavo Geier