Parashat Eikev finds the People of Israel at a decisive moment: on the threshold of entering the Land, with the national vision about to be realized and the promised abundance just around the corner. Precisely here, Moses chooses to warn: the real danger does not lie in times of scarcity, but in times of prosperity. Abundance can lead to forgetfulness, arrogance, and moral blindness: “And you say to yourselves, ‘My own power and the might of my own hand have won this wealth for me.’”(Deuteronomy 8:17). This verse is a sharp warning against the sin of arrogance - the sense of power and the moral complacency that comes with it.
Moses reminds the people of the difference between Egypt and the Land of Israel: “For the land… is not like the land of Egypt… The land… drinks water from the rain of heaven. It is a land which your God cares for; the eyes of your God are always upon it” (Deuteronomy 11:10–12).In Egypt, the Nile’s flow provided security regardless of the people’s morality. In the Land of Israel, by contrast, our existence depends on our actions- on the moral level of society. The message is clear: sovereignty is not just a historical right, but an ongoing moral responsibility.
In Deuteronomy 10:19, we find the commandment: “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The Torah repeats the commandment to care for the stranger’s welfare 36 times (Bava Metzia 59b). This is not a recommendation- it is a pillar of a moral society. A society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable members: the stranger, the widow, and the orphan. A society that listens to the strong and ignores the weak loses its soul. When the value of a stranger’s life is deemed less than that of a Jew, and sensitivity to the suffering of the other disappears, we lose the moral justification for our existence here.
Moses reminds the people of the breaking of the tablets: “You turned aside quickly from the way… I took hold of the two tablets… and I broke them” (Deuteronomy 9:16-17). Moses identifies a deep moral rupture and chooses to start anew. Unlike the sin of the Golden Calf, a moral collapse does not necessarily happen in a single day. It is usually the result of a slow erosion over many years, one that is very hard to recognize at first. By the time we finally notice it, we are already far along the path. The human cost of resetting from such a breakdown is very high.
Parashat Eikev teaches us that abundance has a price—it can blind us. Our existence as a sovereign entity requires humility, mutual responsibility, and constant safeguarding of morality. In the Land of Israel, there is no existential security without moral conduct—not only as a matter of faith, but as a human law of life. The attitude toward the stranger and the weak, the recognition of every person’s suffering, and the understanding that power without moral backing leads to self-destruction—these are not merely religious commandments, but essential conditions for our existence here.
The sin of arrogance lurks close. From Parashat Eikev we can learn that a state that chooses to act with indifference toward suffering—whether that of the hostages, the displaced and evacuated from their homes, the residents of Gaza, or Palestinians in the West Bank—undermines the moral justification for its existence.
As for the commandment to love the stranger: when the judicial system distinguishes between one blood and another—releasing the murderer of Odeh Dadaalin while the grieving residents of his village remain under arrest and face violence—it sends a message to the public that Arab lives are worth less. The murder of Odeh Dadaalin in Umm al-Kheir in the southern Hebron Hills is not only the crime of an individual. The “terror youth” who assault Palestinians enjoy backing from ministers in the government. It is not enough to say these are “bad weeds”—this is a systemic process of moral decay.
We have learned from Rashi’s commentary on Leviticus 26:37 that “all Israel are responsible for one another”—responsibility for the government’s actions falls on all of us, even when it involves an extreme minority that carries out the harm. Silence, turning a blind eye, or justifying such acts is complicity.
And yet, hope lives on. Time and again, Israel’s civil society proves its power to organize, volunteer, and act out of deep moral responsibility. It responds to the call of the heart, not the command of the state: helping war victims, protecting threatened communities, and prioritizing human life over any other consideration.
Perhaps here lies the key to hope: in our choice as a society—diverse in faces and identities—not to settle for criticism, but to take personal and collective responsibility for building a just world. “Therefore keep the commandments of your God ‘ה: walk in God’s ways and show reverence.” (Deuteronomy 8:6) - to walk in His ways means to act. As long as we remain determined to preserve the spirit of volunteerism and our human commitment to one another, Jews, Arabs, and all of humankind, there is still a chance to live here again with dignity, security, and peace.
Shabbat Shalom!
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Eyal Yeshfeh is a secular rabbi, a graduate of T’mura. He serves as chair of the Council of Secular Rabbis in Israel, founder and leader of Kehillat Re’im, a secular humanistic Jewish community. He guides pre-army programs on tours as part of the Rabbis for Human Rights guide team. He is married to Michal, father of three, and a proud grandfather of three grandchildren (with another on the way).
Moses reminds the people of the difference between Egypt and the Land of Israel: “For the land… is not like the land of Egypt… The land… drinks water from the rain of heaven. It is a land which your God cares for; the eyes of your God are always upon it” (Deuteronomy 11:10–12).In Egypt, the Nile’s flow provided security regardless of the people’s morality. In the Land of Israel, by contrast, our existence depends on our actions- on the moral level of society. The message is clear: sovereignty is not just a historical right, but an ongoing moral responsibility.
In Deuteronomy 10:19, we find the commandment: “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The Torah repeats the commandment to care for the stranger’s welfare 36 times (Bava Metzia 59b). This is not a recommendation- it is a pillar of a moral society. A society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable members: the stranger, the widow, and the orphan. A society that listens to the strong and ignores the weak loses its soul. When the value of a stranger’s life is deemed less than that of a Jew, and sensitivity to the suffering of the other disappears, we lose the moral justification for our existence here.
Moses reminds the people of the breaking of the tablets: “You turned aside quickly from the way… I took hold of the two tablets… and I broke them” (Deuteronomy 9:16-17). Moses identifies a deep moral rupture and chooses to start anew. Unlike the sin of the Golden Calf, a moral collapse does not necessarily happen in a single day. It is usually the result of a slow erosion over many years, one that is very hard to recognize at first. By the time we finally notice it, we are already far along the path. The human cost of resetting from such a breakdown is very high.
Parashat Eikev teaches us that abundance has a price—it can blind us. Our existence as a sovereign entity requires humility, mutual responsibility, and constant safeguarding of morality. In the Land of Israel, there is no existential security without moral conduct—not only as a matter of faith, but as a human law of life. The attitude toward the stranger and the weak, the recognition of every person’s suffering, and the understanding that power without moral backing leads to self-destruction—these are not merely religious commandments, but essential conditions for our existence here.
The sin of arrogance lurks close. From Parashat Eikev we can learn that a state that chooses to act with indifference toward suffering—whether that of the hostages, the displaced and evacuated from their homes, the residents of Gaza, or Palestinians in the West Bank—undermines the moral justification for its existence.
As for the commandment to love the stranger: when the judicial system distinguishes between one blood and another—releasing the murderer of Odeh Dadaalin while the grieving residents of his village remain under arrest and face violence—it sends a message to the public that Arab lives are worth less. The murder of Odeh Dadaalin in Umm al-Kheir in the southern Hebron Hills is not only the crime of an individual. The “terror youth” who assault Palestinians enjoy backing from ministers in the government. It is not enough to say these are “bad weeds”—this is a systemic process of moral decay.
We have learned from Rashi’s commentary on Leviticus 26:37 that “all Israel are responsible for one another”—responsibility for the government’s actions falls on all of us, even when it involves an extreme minority that carries out the harm. Silence, turning a blind eye, or justifying such acts is complicity.
And yet, hope lives on. Time and again, Israel’s civil society proves its power to organize, volunteer, and act out of deep moral responsibility. It responds to the call of the heart, not the command of the state: helping war victims, protecting threatened communities, and prioritizing human life over any other consideration.
Perhaps here lies the key to hope: in our choice as a society—diverse in faces and identities—not to settle for criticism, but to take personal and collective responsibility for building a just world. “Therefore keep the commandments of your God ‘ה: walk in God’s ways and show reverence.” (Deuteronomy 8:6) - to walk in His ways means to act. As long as we remain determined to preserve the spirit of volunteerism and our human commitment to one another, Jews, Arabs, and all of humankind, there is still a chance to live here again with dignity, security, and peace.
Shabbat Shalom!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eyal Yeshfeh is a secular rabbi, a graduate of T’mura. He serves as chair of the Council of Secular Rabbis in Israel, founder and leader of Kehillat Re’im, a secular humanistic Jewish community. He guides pre-army programs on tours as part of the Rabbis for Human Rights guide team. He is married to Michal, father of three, and a proud grandfather of three grandchildren (with another on the way).