Parashat Lech Lecha: The Challenge of Continuing to Walk Together

There are moments when the challenge is simply to keep walking. At other times, walking is no longer enough: we must reach out to others. 

At the beginning of Parashat Lech Lecha, Abram hears a voice calling him to leave his land, the place he knows, and journey toward a destination he cannot yet see. Is it the voice of God? Or perhaps it is that inner voice that urges us to leave behind what no longer allows us to remain unchanged.

Lech Lecha is an invitation to journey, to grow, and to transform ourselves. It reminds us that we do not always choose our path or know where it will lead, but moving forward often requires leaving behind whatever holds us back. Yet the parashah also teaches us that growth does not simply mean distancing ourselves from our past or from the people around us. Sometimes, the real challenge lies in deciding which relationships we are willing to nurture and what responsibilities we are prepared to embrace.

Abram—who has not yet received the additional Hebrew letter hei that will transform his name into Abraham—leaves his homeland accompanied by Sarai, his wife, and Lot, his nephew, whose father had died. He takes Lot with him, welcoming him into his family and into his new life. It is an act of care and belonging: in the uncertainty of a journey into the unknown, Abram does not leave behind someone who needs him.

But time passes, and circumstances change. Both men prosper. Their flocks grow, and their possessions multiply. Then the Torah presents us with an unexpected difficulty:

וְלֹא־נָשָׂ֥א אֹתָ֛ם הָאָ֖רֶץ לָשֶׁ֣בֶת יַחְדָּ֑ו כִּֽי־הָיָ֤ה רְכוּשָׁם֙ רָ֔ב וְלֹ֥א יָֽכְל֖וּ לָשֶׁ֥בֶת יַחְדָּֽו

“The land could not sustain them while they lived together, for their possessions were so great that they could not live together” (Bereshit—Genesis 13:6).

The Hebrew expression lashévet iajdav, “to live together,” appears twice. The land seems unable to provide enough room for both men, but the verse raises a question that goes beyond the availability of pasture: Is the problem simply a lack of space, or is it also becoming difficult for them to live together?

Rashi explains that there was not enough pasture for their flocks. Malbim, however, identifies two dimensions of the problem: insufficient resources and Lot's departure from Abraham's ways. Material hardship thus combines with differences that strain their relationship.

An unavoidable question emerges: Is scarcity the cause of conflict, or does it sometimes become an excuse we use to justify our unwillingness to live together?

The Torah tells us that the tension spreads to their shepherds as well. What began as a problem between Abram and Lot is now being played out among those who work for them.

וַֽיְהִי־רִ֗יב בֵּ֚ין רֹעֵ֣י מִקְנֵֽה־אַבְרָ֔ם וּבֵ֖ין רֹעֵ֣י מִקְנֵה־ל֑וֹט וְהַֽכְּנַעֲנִי֙ וְהַפְּרִזִּ֔י אָ֖ז יֹשֵׁ֥ב בָּאָֽרֶץ׃

“There was a dispute between the herdsmen of Abram’s livestock and the herdsmen of Lot’s livestock. At that time, the Canaanites and the Perizzites were dwelling in the land.” (Genesis 13:7)

Ovadia Sforno, for his part, explains that each group was trying to prevail over the other in the struggle for the available grazing land. The goal was no longer to find a solution that addressed both sides' needs, but to make the other side give up its place—to get the other out of the way.

The verse adds another significant detail: the Canaanites and the Perizzites were living in the land at that time. According to Sforno, the quarrel between Abram and Lot also damaged the image they projected to the neighboring peoples. Their conflict could make them appear vulnerable and encourage others to take advantage of their division.

The consequences of conflict, then, reach far beyond those directly involved. It affects those around us, damages relationships, and can jeopardize everyone's security. Each side may believe it is legitimately defending what belongs to it, yet neither side can fully control the consequences its dispute may set in motion.

Doesn't something similar happen in our communities and societies? When we stop seeing the other person as someone with whom we must find a solution and begin treating them as an obstacle to be removed, the very nature of the conflict changes. Differences cease to be part of living together and become a threat to it.

That is when Abram speaks:

וַיֹּאמֶר אַבְרָם אֶל־לוֹט אַל־נָא תְהִי מְרִיבָה בֵּינִי וּבֵינֶךָ וּבֵין רֹעַי וּבֵין רֹעֶיךָ כִּי־אֲנָשִׁים אַחִים אֲנָחְנוּ

“Please, let there be no strife between you and me, or between my shepherds and your shepherds, for we are brothers” (Bereshit—Genesis 13:8).

Anashim achim anachnu: We are brothers.

Abram does not deny the conflict, nor does he expect it to disappear simply because they share a family history. He does not begin by listing his rights or accusing Lot. Instead, he begins by reminding him of what unites them.

And he proposes a practical solution: they will separate, divide the available land, and allow each to continue on his own path. He does not demand that Lot think as he does or give up his own interests. He seeks a way forward that will keep their differences from destroying the bond they still share.

There is a profound lesson in this decision. Living together does not require us all to think alike, but it does require us to recognize our responsibility toward one another. Sometimes we must negotiate; at other times, we must establish boundaries or go our separate ways. What matters is that we do not turn every disagreement into a battle in which the only acceptable outcome is the other person's defeat.

Last year, as we approached this parashah, we spoke about the journey of healing we owed ourselves as a people after October 7: the need to grieve, remember, embrace one another, and learn to believe again. Today, I would like to focus on another dimension of that journey: our responsibility to defend what we hold dear and to act when the values we proclaim are under threat.

We live in a world where hateful rhetoric is multiplying and antisemitism is once again manifesting itself with a ferocity we cannot allow ourselves to normalize. It appears on social media, in educational settings, in the streets, and in public debate. Not every criticism of the Israeli government constitutes antisemitism. But no political cause can justify dehumanizing Jews, denying their identity, or collectively holding entire Jewish communities responsible for decisions they did not make.

In the face of this reality, private indignation is not enough, nor is expressing solidarity only among those who already agree with us. We have a responsibility to educate, to make our case, to speak out against attacks, and to build alliances with all those who believe in a society where no one should have to hide their identity to feel safe.

Defending our community does not mean shutting ourselves off from the world. It means affirming our identity while also defending the dignity of others. Values require commitment, solidarity, and people willing to accept responsibility. But firmness, too, needs limits and an ethical compass: strength without values can become domination, while values without action risk being reduced to empty words.

In this context, the memory of Yitzhak Rabin takes on particular significance. Around the twelfth of Cheshvan, we remember the Israeli prime minister who was assassinated in 1995 by a Jewish extremist at the end of a peace rally. His death reminds us of a painful truth: hatred does not come only from outside. It can also take root within our own societies when the vilification of opponents, intolerance, and irreconcilable divisions replace dialogue.

Remembering Rabin does not mean putting an end to debate about his decisions or his legacy. It means defending a fundamental principle: no political disagreement justifies violence; no opponent ceases to be a fellow citizen; and democracy demands far more than elections. It requires responsibility for our words, respect for shared rules, and a commitment to protecting the life and dignity of those who think differently.

As Israel prepares to return to the polls on October 27, these questions take on particular relevance. The challenges surrounding security, coexistence among different sectors of society, the relationship between religion and state, and the prospects for peace and regional stability are all part of a debate whose outcome will have consequences far beyond Israel's borders.

For Jews in the Diaspora, Israel is part of our history, our identity, and our future. We have a responsibility to remain engaged, to listen, and to understand the complexity of Israel's reality, without seeking to replace the voices of its citizens or reduce its dilemmas to our own preferences. We must also ask ourselves which values we want to defend and what kind of future we want to help build.

I return, then, to Abram and Lot. Their story does not end with the disappearance of their differences, but with a decision that allows both men to continue on their own paths. Abram understands that preserving a relationship may require a gesture of goodwill, a concession, or a new way of relating to one another. Someone has to take the first step, and Abram chooses to do so.

Perhaps this is also the challenge of our own journey. Healing the wounds of the past is not enough if we do not ask ourselves what we will do with what we have learned. Proclaiming peace is not enough if we remain indifferent to injustice. And defending our identity is not enough if, along the way, we forget the dignity of those around us.

Each of us can identify a person, a cause, or an injustice in our own lives in the face of which indifference is no longer an option. Lech Lecha calls us to leave behind the places that hold us back, but also to recognize when we must reach out to others and when we must act to protect what we believe is worth preserving.

When is it time to yield, and when is it time to stand firm? How can we continue walking together when we are not all heading in the same direction?

May we learn to cultivate peace without confusing it with indifference, to stand firm without making firmness an end in itself, and to transform our memory into responsibility, our pain into humanity, and our journey into hope.

Because the journey continues. And so does our task.

SHABBAT SHALOM UMEVORACH.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier