By all accounts, Rav Avi Goldberg, the 47-year-old father of eight who was tragically killed this week, was an extraordinary person. His family’s request speaks volumes about his character: they welcomed any Knesset members to the shiva under one condition—that they come in pairs, one from the government and one from the opposition. In life, Avi embodied tolerance, love, and respect for others; in his death, his family upholds this legacy.
There could be no better Parsha than Noach to illustrate the depth of this mandate, emerging as it does from the heart of our sacred texts.
The book of Gensis exposes many inherent dangers within the human condition. Two such narratives frame our Parsha, one at the end of last week’s parsha and the other at the end of this weeks. The first is a cryptic passage immediately preceding God’s call to destroy humanity in th generation of Noach. In the passage (Gen. 6:1-4), we hear about the “sons of God” who, driven by desire, forcibly take the daughters of Adam simply because “they looked good.” This story is one of hubris, of a “God complex,” as the saying goes: “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Nietzsche warned us in the nineteenth century that in casting aside God, humanity would seek to become gods themselves, yet the Bible had already alerted us to this danger centuries earlier. The Genesis narrative as a whole serves as a sustained warning about the perils of being created in the image of God.
These “sons of God” view the ‘women of Adam’ as objects to possess, seeing the ‘other’ not as equal but as something to control and dominate. In the language of Martin Buber, their relationship to the other is one of ‘I-It’ rather than ‘I-Thou’; it is a posture of mastery, not mutuality; of hierarchy, not dialogue; of control, not covenant. The natural outcome is a society plagued by corruption and depravity. Humanity, the Bible tells us, has forgotten that although they are created in God’s image, they are also charged with the responsibility to protect that Divine image in others. The generation must be destroyed.
The second narrative unfolds at the end of the Parsha—the story of the Tower of Babel. Once again, we encounter a theme of hubris, only this time the text is more enigmatic and Gods wrath less explicit. The sin and punishment here are nuanced, requiring deeper analysis. I believe the key to understanding this story lies in a close examination of verses 3 and 4. On the surface, the building project appears to be one of unity and purpose, of innovation and creativity. The people seem to be fulfilling God’s command to Adam in Genesis 1—to rule over the earth, creating building materials and working together in a grand display of communal endeavour to build a dignified, exalted society.
In verse 3, we read:
In verse 3 we are told:
. ג וַיֹּאמְרוּ אִישׁ אֶל-רֵעֵהוּ, הָבָה נִלְבְּנָה לְבֵנִים, וְנִשְׂרְפָה, לִשְׂרֵפָה; וַתְּהִי לָהֶם הַלְּבֵנָה, לְאָבֶן, וְהַחֵמָר, הָיָה לָהֶם לַחֹמֶר
Each man said to HIS FRIEND let us build…..
In the next verse however the רעהו had disappeared and we are told simply:
. ד וַיֹּאמְרוּ הָבָה נִבְנֶה-לָּנוּ עִיר, וּמִגְדָּל וְרֹאשׁוֹ בַשָּׁמַיִם, וְנַעֲשֶׂה-לָּנוּ, שֵׁם: פֶּן-נָפוּץ, עַל-פְּנֵי כָל-הָאָרֶץ.
Each man said….lets us make ‘a name’
What has transpired between verses 3 and 4? The unique individual—the friend, the person created in God’s image—has been subsumed into the vision of an ideal order. He has been replaced by a generic “name,” imposed from above rather than emerging from below. The imagery here offers further insight: the people aim to build a tower with its "head" in the heavens. When we look down on the "heads" of people, they become indistinguishable from one another. This vision of humanity is one of uniformity—a Platonic ideal of humankind where we are all the same, universalized into a single essence.
In contrast, God decides to scatter humanity across the “face” of the earth (על פני כל הארץ). As the 20th-century philosopher Levinas argues, the face is the foundation of morality; it is the uniqueness of the other that calls us to act morally. Difference, essence, and spirit are reflected in the face of each individual. To rectify the “tower with its head in the clouds,” God returns humanity to its unique “face on earth.” While universalism would return us to Plato’s heaven—where all emanate from the ideal form of humanity and individual distinctions dissolve—God shows us the beauty of our differences. In many ways it is a protest against Lennon’s “imagine all the people”, and any form of utopianism that negates multiplicity. True unity arises not from sameness but from diversity and respecting the other in all their variety.
Having pledged not to destroy the world again, God begins by mixing their languages, enforcing a diversity that might, ideally, lead to respect for the individual. He allows them to continue their creative project, hoping they might maintain both their diversity and a shared purpose. Yet, this does not succeed; the people are scattered, and the imposed diversity of languages becomes Babel’s legacy. It serves as the Bible’s sustained protest against universalism and idealized homogeneity. Both the liberal West and religious fundamentalism would sometimes have us believe that unity requires everyone to think and be the same, shedding our unique national and individual identities. But this is not the answer. Unity can be achieved without uniformity; it requires unwavering commitment to reverence and respect for difference, alongside the recognition that being created in God’s image binds us to one another.
It is no surprise that, following this narrative, we are introduced to the father of the Jewish nation—Avraham HaIvri. He is chosen, in the words of Rabbi Sacks, to teach the world the "dignity of difference." The very word Ivri comes from me’ever—from “the other side.” Throughout history, the Jewish people have often been defined as “the other,” a position that has led to centuries of persecution and suffering. Yet, it is precisely in this “otherness” that our strength and purpose lie. We are here to teach the world that respecting the uniqueness of those who are different is central to our shared humanity. This may be our greatest challenge today. In a postmodern yet deeply polarized world, can we strive for unity without uniformity? Can we work toward a shared vision for humanity without suppressing the voice or face of the other? Can we seek to be “God-like” without hubris, dominance, or coercion? Centuries later, we still have much to learn from the lessons of the Flood and the men of Babel. Will we hear these messages, or will our ears be so closed to the perspectives of others—and the lessons of our sacred texts—that we hear only the echo chambers of our own voices?
We still have a long way to go here in Israel and among the Jewish people in general to fulfil the ideal vision of unity without uniformity, but the last year has shown us that it is possible if we demonstrate humility rather than hubris and recognise that we grow in relation to others who are unlike ourselves. We need to see others as subjects rather than objects, ‘Thou’s’ rather than ‘Its’. Now more than ever we need to share this vision and show others that it is possible.
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