Parashat Behar - Bechukotay: The Ethics of Not Hardening the Heart

There are parashiyot that seem, at first glance, to speak only about ancient laws — fields, harvests, economic systems, and social contracts. But then, almost unexpectedly, we realize they are actually speaking about us: our obsessions, our fears, and the kind of society we are becoming. 

Parashat Behar envisions a world in which even the land is entitled to rest. The Sh’mita year interrupts the relentless logic of nonstop production and reminds us of something modern life often forgets: not everything can be exploited without limit. The land does not belong to us absolutely; neither do people, time, or power.

The Torah insists: “כי לי הארץ” “For the land is Mine” (Leviticus 25:23).

And then it adds an even more radical statement: “כי גרים ותושבים אתם עמדי” “For you are strangers and sojourners with Me.”

It is a profoundly spiritual claim, but also a deeply political one. None of us are ultimate owners of anything. We are merely temporary guardians of what has been entrusted to us.

That is why, in Behar, debts are not eternal, slaves regain their freedom, and the earth itself is allowed to breathe. The Torah understands that when a society loses the ability to place limits on itself, it eventually begins to unravel from within. An economy without pauses leads to exhaustion. Power without restraint leads to abuse. A society without compassion slowly loses its soul.

And then comes Parashat Bechukotai with one of the most haunting passages in the entire Torah: the Tochachah, the Admonition. Traditionally, it is read quietly, almost under one’s breath. The words are terrifying — famine, disease, violence, devastation. Generations have wrestled with how the Torah could contain imagery so severe.

But perhaps the mistake is to read it merely as a threat.

Maybe these are not punishments in the simplistic sense, but reflections on what happens when a society loses its moral sensitivity — when people stop listening to one another, when another person’s suffering no longer moves us, when arrogance replaces responsibility.

The Torah seems to warn us that there are inevitable consequences when the ethical bonds holding society together begin to fracture.

This is not God delighting in human suffering. It is the anguished language of One who loves and fears losing what He loves.

Like a parent watching a child self-destruct, crying out in despair with words born not from hatred, but from heartbreak. The Tochachah is not the absence of love; it is, in many ways, love itself laid bare. Only those who truly love can feel such devastation at the possibility of losing the other.

And yet, even in the midst of those dark verses, the Torah leaves the door cracked open: “אם בחוקותי תלכו” “If you walk in My ways…”

It does not demand perfection. It speaks about walking — continuing the journey, continuing the effort to build a society grounded in dignity, justice, and mutual responsibility.

That may be one of the greatest spiritual challenges of our time.

We are surrounded by absolute certainties, by toxic polarization, by a growing inability to hear another person’s pain without feeling that our own convictions are somehow under attack. Everything pushes us toward hardness of heart.

And yet Jewish tradition stubbornly insists on another path.

The prophet Jeremiah — whose voice accompanies this season of the Jewish calendar — was accused of pessimism, of weakening the people’s morale. But perhaps his true greatness lay elsewhere: he refused to lie. He had the courage to sound the alarm without ceasing to love his people. He was willing to face darkness without turning it into an idol.

That requires extraordinary spiritual strength.

Because it is far easier to harden ourselves than to remain tender. Far easier to shout than to listen. Far easier to live convinced that all truth belongs exclusively to us.

But the Torah reminds us: “For you are strangers and sojourners with Me.”

We are not the absolute owners of the land. Not the sole possessors of truth. Not the permanent masters of power.

Perhaps spiritual maturity means precisely this: holding firmly to our convictions without losing humility; defending principles without dehumanizing others; cultivating strength without becoming cruel.

The poet Yehuda Amichai once wrote: “From the place where we are right, flowers will never grow in the spring.”

What a necessary truth for these fractured times.

Perhaps the deepest message of Behar–Bechukotai is that the future of our shared world depends on our willingness to protect what is fragile: the earth, language, human relationships, and our own moral sensitivity.

That is why it is so moving to conclude the book of Vayikra with the words Jewish communities have repeated for generations: “חזק חזק ונתחזק” “Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen one another.”

Not a strength rooted in hardness, but a strength capable of preserving humanity even in difficult times.

May we have the courage to speak what must be spoken without losing compassion. May we learn to care for the earth and for one another. And even as we walk through dark and uncertain days, may we never surrender the possibility of an ethical springtime.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Gustavo Geier