How We Ravel and Unravel: Behar-Bechukotai

This year, as we read Behar-Bechukotai together, their deep interconnection feels particularly resonant in light of the moment we are living through in Israel. Behar speaks of the creation of a just and sacred society in the land of Israel. Bechukotai confronts us with the possibility of its unraveling. One parsha is filled with the vision of growth, order, and covenantal responsibility; the other offers a haunting portrayal of breakdown and exile. Together, they frame the tension that defines much of Jewish history—and our current reality: between building and losing, between flourishing and fragility.

At the centre of this tension is the mitzvah of Shmitta—the command to let the land lie fallow every seventh year and to release debts. Shmitta is the first command we are given upon entering the land, but why begin there?

The Torah is not a political blueprint or a sociological program—it’s a tapestry of laws, narratives, and values that convey first principles for covenantal life. Shmitta is one such principle. It embodies the Torah’s vision of a society that balances individual freedom and economic productivity with social justice and communal responsibility. Private ownership is not abolished, but its purpose is reframed: growth and wealth must be tempered with humility, compassion, and care for the most vulnerable—those often invisible to society.

Shmitta interrupts the relentless rhythm of productivity. It calls on us to pause, to relinquish control, and to make space—for the poor, for the land, for others, and for God. It nurtures a posture of humility and gratitude, reminding us that success is not merely a function of effort or entitlement but of partnership with something beyond ourselves. It pushes us to move beyond the narrow I and toward a collective we.

In the modern State of Israel, the full implementation of Shmitta is complex. Shmittat karka (letting the land rest) and shmittat kesafim (forgoing debts) have largely been circumvented through halakhic mechanisms like heter mechira and pruzbul. Still, the aspiration remains. Even among secular Israelis, there is often a deep-seated desire to preserve the spirit of these laws. Perhaps this reflects a national yearning to close the gap between ideal and real, to reconcile the demands of a functioning society with our moral imagination.

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We began Vayikra exploring the distance between the world as it is and the world as it ought to be. We end with the same question: how do we build a society that holds both justice and compassion, both vision and pragmatism?

The laws of Shmitta are not just about social justice—they are deeply spiritual. Shmitta is mentioned in both Shemot and Vayikra. In Shemot 23:10 (Exodus), the laws of shmitta are set within the context of interpersonal ethics: caring for the poor, the stranger, and the land. But here in Vayikra 25:2-4 (Leviticus), the emphasis shifts. It’s about cultivating what Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel called “radical amazement”—a deep awareness of the Divine presence woven into the rhythms of everyday life.

It may seem surprising to find laws about agriculture and economics in a book devoted to holiness and the priestly realm. But that’s precisely the point. The Torah’s vision of holiness is not confined to ritual or the sanctuary. A sacred life, according to Vayikra, is one lived with awe and consciousness—where even the mundane becomes infused with meaning.

In Judaism, ethical behaviour is not just about doing what is “right.” It flows from a profound sense of standing in relationship—with others, with the land, and with God. We don’t just act ethically because “it is good”, but because a radical awareness of transcendence makes acting unethically impossible.

In the next Parsha, Bechukotai we are warned of the dangers of forgetting. Of imagining our security as permanent. Of seeing our success as a guarantee. The repeated refrain of the curses uses the word keri—“If you walk with Me b'keri (casually, indifferently, by happenstance).” (Vayikra 26: 21-41) The danger is not only sin, but indifference: a life stripped of purpose, a society that no longer sees itself in covenant with history, with others, or with God. A life that is barren from awe and God consciousness. A people who have forgotten the realm of the sacred.

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The story of the Jewish people oscillates between Behar and Bechukotai—between prosperity, abundance, and security on one hand, and desolation, exile, and conditionality on the other. The space between these two realities is where sacred living is mandated. Not a life removed from reality, but a reality infused with sacredness: the sacredness of the human being in all their Divine dignity, the sacredness of the land, of the gifts God has bestowed upon us, of the Jewish people, and of the rhythms of daily life.

The path out of our unraveling lies in walking a road of righteousness and justice—born of radical amazement and awe, and sustained by a consciousness that brings virtue through sacred living.

In the aftermath of October 7, many of us in Israel are reeling from a rupture we never imagined. The ground beneath our feet has been shaken—physically, emotionally, and morally. We find ourselves asking: how do we begin to navigate a path back to the life we long for?

I believe the answer begins in this week’s parsha.

Shmitta teaches that a covenantal society cannot be built on power or prosperity alone. It must be grounded in restraint, humility, and care for the other—born of a posture of radical awe and reverence. When we speak in ways that diminish rather than illuminate the other; when we operate from privilege instead of presence; when we believe we can rebuild entirely on our own: “And you may say in your heart: My power and the strength of my hand have made this wealth for me.” (Devarim 8:17), —we forget the essence of our covenantal destiny. This illusion of self-sufficiency is precisely what Shmitta disrupts. It reminds us that success is not ours alone, but part of a sacred partnership—with God, with the land, and with one another.

There is no perfect formula for creating a society where all values align. We live in constant tension—a balancing act between justice and mercy, freedom and responsibility, autonomy and care. But if we return to our first principles—Shmitta among them—we may find that we are not unraveling, but beginning to reweave the fabric of a more just and sacred society.

Shabbat Shalom.