We are commanded to love the stranger in our midst because we were strangers in Egypt. As long as the stranger accepts our societal norms then we are required to love them.

Loving the Stranger—and Belonging to a Society

Now for a quick devar Torah.

One of the striking commandments in this week’s parsha is: “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

The Torah is taking our own experience in Egypt and turning it into a moral obligation. We know what it is like to be outsiders. We know what it is like to be vulnerable in someone else’s land. Therefore, when a stranger lives among us, we have an obligation to treat that person with dignity, fairness, and even love.

But there is another side to the relationship.

The Torah and later Jewish law recognize different categories of outsiders. There is the ger, the stranger who lives among us, and there is the nokhri, the foreigner. Rabbinic law also discusses the ger toshav—a non-Jew who lives within Jewish society without becoming Jewish, but who accepts certain fundamental obligations. According to the major halachic view, this includes acceptance of the Seven Noahide Laws.

The principle is important: the stranger does not have to become Jewish in order to live among us and be treated with dignity. But living within a society also means accepting its basic legal and moral framework.

That reminds me of my mother. She came to America as a refugee from Europe in the early 1940s. At the time, there were German-speaking schools in New York, but my grandfather did not send her to one. He insisted that she attend an English-speaking school. Later, when she and my aunt went to high school to train as secretaries, again, the education was in English.

His reasoning was very simple: You are in America now. The language of business in America is English. America does not have to adapt itself to you; you have to learn how to function within America.

That did not mean abandoning who they were. It meant becoming participants in the society that had given them a home.

There is a lesson here about immigration and about society generally. A society has obligations toward the stranger. It must protect the stranger from oppression. It must administer justice fairly. It must recognize the stranger’s dignity.

But membership in a society is also a two-way street. The newcomer has obligations as well. You may disagree with particular policies. You may advocate for change. But you have to accept the basic rules by which the society governs itself.

In America, that fundamental framework is the Constitution and the rule of law.

In the Torah’s vision of the Land of Israel, the Torah is the foundation of the society. A non-Jew does not have to become Jewish, but living within that society means respecting its fundamental legal and moral order.

And perhaps that makes the Torah’s reminder about Egypt even more powerful. When our ancestors originally came to Egypt, they came because of famine. They were not trying to overthrow Egyptian civilization or impose their beliefs upon Egypt. They wanted to live there peacefully.

The tragedy began when Egypt stopped treating the stranger with dignity and turned the stranger into a threat to be feared, oppressed, and ultimately enslaved.

So the Torah gives us both sides of the equation: a society must treat the stranger with love and dignity, and those who join a society must respect the basic framework that holds that society together.

Welcoming the stranger does not require a society to surrender its identity. And joining a society does not require a person to surrender his own identity.

It requires mutual responsibility.

Something to think about.

The second paragraph of the Shema emphasizes that we have a communal responsibility to help. It is not enough that we are personally spiritual but that we are communally spiritual.

The Shema and the Strength of Community

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

This week, in Parshat Eikev, we encounter the second paragraph of the Shema. And there is an interesting difference between the first and second paragraphs.

The first paragraph speaks primarily in the singular: you shall love God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.

But the second paragraph shifts to the plural. Moshe is no longer speaking simply to the individual. He is speaking to us as a community.

That distinction is especially important when we remember what the Book of Deuteronomy is about. Moshe is preparing the Jewish people to enter the Land of Israel. After forty years in the wilderness, we are going to build a society. And a society cannot survive on individual spirituality alone.

We certainly have obligations as individuals. But we also have obligations to the people around us. If we want to create a holy society, each of us has to understand that what we do affects everyone else.

That reminds me of something Alexis de Tocqueville observed when he visited the United States in the 1830s and later wrote Democracy in America. Tocqueville was fascinated by the way Americans formed voluntary associations. When people wanted to accomplish something, they did not necessarily wait for the government or some aristocrat to do it for them. They organized themselves. They created religious congregations, charities, civic organizations, and associations of every kind.

People understood that they were part of a community and that when the community needed something, they had a responsibility to pitch in.

Tocqueville saw this habit of association as one of the great strengths of American democracy. Freedom did not mean simply being left alone. A free society depended upon people voluntarily accepting responsibility for one another and working together for the common good.

And that fits beautifully with the second paragraph of the Shema.

The Torah is telling us that spirituality cannot be only about me. It must also be about us. Yes, there are exceptional individuals who can maintain their spiritual lives entirely on their own, but most of us need a community. We need people around us who encourage us, challenge us, and remind us of the values by which we are supposed to live.

If everyone around us is doing the wrong thing, eventually it becomes much harder to keep doing the right thing. But when we build a community committed to certain values, we strengthen one another.

And then the Shema gives us another responsibility: teach these values to your children.

If a community wants to survive, its values cannot end with one generation. Our children have to learn that life is not simply about me—my wants, my success, my happiness. It is also about my family, my community, my society, and my nation.

Moshe is preparing the Jewish people to build a new society, and he is teaching us that holiness is not achieved only through private spiritual experience. Holiness is also created through the way we live together, the responsibilities we accept for one another, and the values we pass on to the next generation.

The first paragraph of the Shema teaches us about the commitment of the individual.

The second reminds us that the individual must become part of something larger.

Because if we want to build a holy society, it cannot just be about me.

It has to be about us.

Something to think about.

One of the hardest things for us to be grateful with everything is going well. We bless our food before we eat and are hungry but more importantly, we bless it after when we are satiated.

Gratitude After the Blessing: The Lesson of Parshat Eikev

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

One of the hardest things for us to be is grateful—especially when we are successful.

In Parshat Eikev, Moshe is continuing his final address to the Jewish people as they prepare to enter the Land of Israel. For forty years in the wilderness, the Jewish people lived surrounded by open miracles. Manna came from heaven. God protected them from their enemies. Their clothing did not wear out. Their basic needs were provided for in ways that made God’s presence impossible to ignore.

But now everything is about to change.

The Jewish people are going to enter the Land of Israel, where they will have to build a society. They will have to conquer the land, plant crops, raise families, conduct business, care for the poor, and create functioning communities. God’s blessings will still be there, but they will no longer always appear as obvious miracles.

And that creates a danger.

When manna falls from heaven, you know where breakfast came from. But when you plant a field, harvest the wheat, bake the bread, build a successful business, or earn a good living, it becomes very easy to say: I did this.

Moshe warns against exactly that attitude:

“My strength and the power of my hand made me this wealth.”

And then comes the Torah’s response: remember that it is God who gives you the strength to achieve.

That does not mean human effort is unimportant. Quite the opposite. Once the Jewish people enter Israel, they are expected to work, build, fight, farm, trade, and create. But success carries with it the danger of forgetting where our abilities and opportunities ultimately came from.

This is also why our obligations are not limited to ritual. It is important to pray and perform the commandments properly, but that is not the whole story. God also cares about how we treat one another. Do we care for the poor, the sick, the orphan, the widow, and the elderly? Do we conduct our businesses honestly? Do we treat employees and customers fairly? What kind of society are we building with the blessings we have been given?

And then the Torah gives us one of its simplest—and most profound—lessons in gratitude:

“You shall eat, you shall be satisfied, and you shall bless the Lord your God.”

This is the Torah’s source for Birkat Hamazon, Grace After Meals.

Think about the timing.

Before eating, gratitude may come naturally. You’re hungry. The food is sitting in front of you. Of course you’re grateful.

But what happens afterward?

Now your stomach is full. Your immediate need has disappeared. That is precisely when the Torah tells us: Don’t forget to say thank you.

Gratitude is easy when we need something. The real test comes after we have received it.

After you have eaten, are you still grateful for the food?

After you have succeeded, are you grateful for the opportunity and ability to succeed?

After you have made your money, do you remember that having the health, intelligence, opportunity, and circumstances to earn it were themselves blessings?

After years with your family and friends, do you still recognize what a blessing they are?

The opposite of gratitude is entitlement—the feeling that what I have simply belongs to me, that I deserve it, and therefore there is no reason to be thankful.

The Torah teaches us something different.

Perhaps that is also why the most elaborate blessing after food is associated with bread—the basic staple of the meal. We are taught to appreciate not only life’s luxuries and extraordinary moments, but the ordinary things we depend upon every day.

A roof over our heads. Food on the table. Family. Friends. Health. Work. Community. The ability to get up in the morning and face another day.

Moshe is preparing the Jewish people for a world in which God’s blessings will often come through ordinary life rather than open miracles. And his message remains just as relevant today:

Don’t wait until you need something to remember God. Remember Him after you have received it.

Be grateful when you’re hungry.

But even more importantly, be grateful when you’re full.

Something to think about.

Yesterday was the saddest day of the Jewish year, the 9th of Av, when we remember the disasters that befell us on that day. Six days later we celebrate the 15th of Av, when we work to have marriages and build the future. That is the essence of our lives. Remember the past to build a better future.

Now for a Quick Devar Torah

Yesterday was Tisha B’Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. It is the day we mourn the destruction of both the First and Second Temples, along with many other tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people.

Our Sages teach that the Temples were not destroyed simply because powerful empires attacked us. They were destroyed because Jewish society had broken down from within. The First Temple fell because of idolatry, immorality, and bloodshed. The Second Temple fell because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred between Jews. The Babylonians and Romans were merely the instruments. The real cause was our own failure as a society.

History teaches that one of the first objectives in war is to destroy the enemy’s morale. When a nation’s spirit is already broken, conquest becomes much easier.

Yet only six days after Tisha B’Av comes Tu B’Av, which the Talmud describes as one of the happiest days of the Jewish year. At first glance, that seems almost impossible. How can we move from the deepest mourning to one of our greatest celebrations in less than a week?

The answer is one of the defining lessons of Judaism: we never surrender to despair. We mourn what has been lost, but then we begin to rebuild.

That is why Tu B’Av became associated with marriages and the building of Jewish families. After remembering destruction, we immediately turn our attention to creating the future.

The Talmud tells a famous story in Tractate Makkot (24b). Rabbi Akiva and the other sages stood on the Temple Mount and saw foxes emerging from the site of the Holy of Holies. The other rabbis wept at the terrible desolation. Foxes avoid people, so seeing them on the Temple Mount symbolized complete abandonment.

But Rabbi Akiva laughed.

When asked why, he explained that the prophet had foretold both the destruction of Jerusalem and its eventual restoration. Now that he had witnessed the first prophecy fulfilled, he was certain the second would also come true—that Jerusalem would once again be filled with old men, old women, and children, alive with Jewish life.

That same lesson can be seen in modern Jerusalem. From 1948 until 1967, the Old City was under Jordanian control. Jews were forbidden to live there or even visit their holiest places, and several synagogues were destroyed, including the Hurva Synagogue.

When the Hurva was rebuilt, archaeologists excavated beneath it. They uncovered remains from later historical periods, but as they dug deeper, they discovered a mikveh dating back to the Second Temple period. Beneath every layer of destruction was evidence of continuous Jewish life.

That is the message of Tu B’Av.

We acknowledge tragedy. We remember the past. We learn from our mistakes. But we refuse to let disaster define our future.

Judaism teaches us to mourn—but never to despair. We honor the past, and then we build a better future.

Something to think about.

It is no accident that July 4, 1776 fell on the 17th of Tamuz that year. It shows that the unity of purpose and the unity of the people in instituting a workable government was what saved the Americans, while the division and destruction of Jewish society caused the destruction of the 1st & 2nd Temples.

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

One thing I couldn’t help noticing is an interesting coincidence. July 4, 1776, the day the Declaration of Independence was adopted, fell on the 17th of Tammuz that year—the very day that begins the Three Weeks leading to Tisha B’Av.

The juxtaposition is striking.

Why were the Temples destroyed? The First Temple fell because of grave sins such as idolatry, immorality, and bloodshed. The Second Temple, our sages teach, was destroyed because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred.

In both cases, the underlying issue was the same: society had broken down. The moral fabric of the nation had unraveled.

That is really what we mourn on Tisha B’Av. The Babylonians and the Romans were only the instruments. The prophets and the rabbis make it clear that God allowed those empires to succeed because Jewish society had become spiritually and morally unhealthy. Significantly, the criticism is not primarily about ritual observance. The people were still bringing sacrifices and observing the Temple service. The problem was how they treated one another.

Now compare that with the founding of the United States.

The Declaration of Independence asserted the right of a people to govern themselves, but the Founders understood that freedom alone was not enough. They spent years creating the Constitution, establishing institutions that could preserve justice, order, and liberty. Before independence was complete, they were already thinking about how to sustain a functioning society.

Contrast that with July 14, 1789—the storming of the Bastille and the beginning of the French Revolution. The old regime was overthrown, but there was no agreed-upon plan for what would replace it. The result was chaos, the Reign of Terror, and eventually the dictatorship of Napoleon.

History teaches an important lesson: it is not enough to tear something down. A society must know what it is building in its place.

The same tragedy occurred during the destruction of the Second Temple. While the Romans surrounded Jerusalem, the Jewish factions inside the city fought one another in a bitter civil war. According to our sages, the Romans could simply wait while the Jews weakened themselves from within.

Internal division accomplished what the enemy could not.

That is why the Three Weeks remain so relevant today. Every society will have disagreements. The question is whether those disagreements are handled with respect, responsibility, and a commitment to the common good—or whether they descend into hatred and destruction.

President John Adams expressed a remarkably similar idea in a 1798 letter to the Massachusetts Militia:

“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”

The lesson of the Three Weeks is timeless. A free society depends on moral people who care about one another. We will disagree, and sometimes disagree passionately, but we must learn to disagree without destroying each other.

When society holds together, it can overcome enormous challenges.

When society falls apart from within, history shows that nothing good follows.

Something to think about.

The Jewish people are a nation based on the Torah, much like the US is a nation based on the Constitution. We might criticize our government, leaders and fellow citizens but we have to do it out of our love of the nation.

A Quick Devar Torah: Tisha B’Av, Torah, and the Courage to Set Things Right

As Tisha B’Av approaches, it is worth reflecting on one of the Torah’s most important lessons about what makes the Jewish people a nation.

The Torah teaches that we are not a nation simply because we share a land, a language, or even common leaders. We are a nation because we share a covenant—a commitment to God’s Torah. Our identity rests on law and values.

In that sense, there is an interesting parallel with the United States. When someone becomes an American citizen, enters the military, becomes a police officer, or assumes many public offices, the oath is not to a particular leader or even to the land itself. It is an oath to support and defend the Constitution. The nation’s foundation is its governing principles. Likewise, the Jewish people’s foundation is the Torah.

Tisha B’Av reminds us that the Temple was not destroyed simply because powerful enemies attacked Jerusalem. Our sages teach that the deeper cause was internal failure—sinat chinam, baseless hatred, and the abandonment of the Torah’s ethical teachings. People became consumed with personalities, factions, and petty disputes while neglecting the principles that truly sustain a nation.

The nineteenth-century American statesman Carl Schurz expressed a profound understanding of patriotism when he said:

“My country, right or wrong. When right, to be kept right; when wrong, to be set right.”

That is not a rejection of one’s country—it is an expression of genuine love for it.

The same was true of Israel’s prophets. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, and the others loved the Jewish people deeply. Precisely because they loved their nation, they challenged its moral failings. They criticized corruption, injustice, and abandonment of the Torah—not to weaken Israel, but to strengthen it.

The lesson for us is equally important. A nation is rarely destroyed first from the outside. External enemies usually succeed only after internal weaknesses have taken root. Moral decay, division, and the abandonment of shared principles erode a society from within before any outside force can conquer it.

That is why, when we see wrongdoing, our task is not to attack people or become consumed by personalities. We should focus on the issues themselves, guided by the Torah, and seek correction with dignity, respect, and genuine concern for our fellow Jews.

On Tisha B’Av, we mourn what was lost. But we also recommit ourselves to what preserves a nation: love of Torah, love of our people, and the courage to set things right.

Something to think about.

The 2 versions of the 10 Commandments tell us what the true purpose of God taking us out of Egypt. It was to be a light unto the nations. That we should show the world how to lead an ethical & moral life, individually & as a nation.

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

You can’t help but notice the striking differences between the two versions of the Ten Commandments—one in the Book of Exodus and the other in this week’s parashah, Va’etchanan, in Deuteronomy.

For example, in Exodus we are told to keep Shabbat because God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. In Deuteronomy, however, the reason is different: we are to remember that we were slaves in Egypt and that God brought us out with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.

There is another famous difference. In Exodus the command begins with “Zachor”—”Remember the Sabbath day.” In Deuteronomy it begins with “Shamor”—”Observe” or “Keep the Sabbath day.”

Why the difference?

The Sages taught that Zachor and Shamor were spoken together, but there is also a practical lesson. If you don’t remember Shabbat, you won’t keep it. And if you don’t keep it, you won’t remember it. The two go hand in hand. Every week, by observing Shabbat, we strengthen our memory of it, and by remembering it, we prepare ourselves to observe it again. As Ahad Ha’am famously said, “More than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.”

The different reasons for Shabbat also reflect where the Jewish people are at each moment in history.

At Mount Sinai, in Exodus, the nation had only recently left Egypt. The great lesson was universal: God is the Creator of the entire world, and Shabbat bears witness to Creation. The people were just beginning to understand their relationship with God.

In this week’s parashah, however, the people are no longer standing at Sinai. They are camped on the eastern side of the Jordan River, about to enter the Land of Israel. They are about to become a nation responsible for building a just society.

That is why Deuteronomy emphasizes the Exodus. Remember what it was like to be slaves. Remember what it means to have no rest. Therefore, your servants and everyone in your household are entitled to rest as well. Shabbat is not just a privilege for the master; it is a right shared by everyone.

This is one of the Torah’s great ethical teachings. God did not take the Jewish people out of Egypt simply to free them. He took them out so they could build a society founded on justice, compassion, and morality—to become a light unto the nations.

The two versions of the Fourth Commandment are not contradictory. They complement one another. One reminds us that God is the Creator of the universe. The other reminds us that, because God redeemed us from slavery, we must build a society that respects the dignity and humanity of every person.

Something to think about.

One of the most important lessons that we learn from this week’s portion is the transfer of power to the next generation. But for that transfer to take place we have to teach the next generation how to conduct themselves.

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

This week’s parashah, Va’etchanan, is the second parashah in the Book of Deuteronomy. It begins with one of the most moving moments in the Torah. Moshe pleads with God one last time to let him enter the Land of Israel.

Think about it. For more than forty years, Moshe has led the Jewish people. His one great personal dream is to enter the Land. Yet God tells him, “No.” Moshe will see the Land, but he will not enter it.

Why?

The Torah gives the immediate reason—the incident of striking the rock—but there is also a broader lesson. Leadership must be able to transfer from one generation to the next. Moshe was the perfect leader to take a nation of slaves out of Egypt and transform them into a free people. But now a different kind of leader is needed. Joshua will lead the nation into the Land, where they must build a society governed by law and justice.

Freedom is not something that appears overnight. You cannot simply remove the shackles from slaves and expect them immediately to know how to govern themselves. History teaches that lesson repeatedly. The French Revolution, for example, overthrew a monarchy but eventually descended into the Reign of Terror and then Napoleon. The Russian Revolution replaced one form of tyranny with another. Political freedom without moral and legal preparation can quickly become chaos.

The American Revolution followed a different path. The Founders had been raised under English common law. George Washington considered himself an English subject until Britain rejected the rights of the colonies. When independence came, the new nation still understood that freedom depended upon the rule of law.

That is exactly what Moshe spent forty years teaching. He transformed a nation of former slaves into a people who understood law, justice, and responsibility. And then he had to do one more thing: prepare the next leader.

It is no accident that the first paragraph of the Shema appears in this week’s parashah. It commands us to teach our children “when you sit in your house, when you walk on the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up.” In other words, every moment is a teaching moment.

But children learn far more from what they see than from what they hear.

Researchers studying the early Gush Emunim movement noticed that many children remained committed to the ideals of their parents. Why? Not simply because of classroom education, but because they saw their parents living those values every day. Parents practiced what they preached.

Children are like sponges. They quickly recognize hypocrisy. If we tell them one thing but live another way, they notice. But if they see us living by the values we teach, those lessons become real.

Perhaps that is Moshe’s final lesson. The greatest measure of a leader is not how long he remains in power, but whether he prepares the next generation to carry the mission forward.

That’s something for all of us to think about.

Moses stresses the sin of the spies because they did not believe that we would be able to overcome all the obstacles to liberate the Land of Israel. Lewis and Clark were sent by President Jefferson, and they gave a different report. It will be hard but we and & will be able.

The Sin of the Spies and the Courage to Fulfill a Mission

One of the interesting aspects of this week’s Parshat Devarim is that when Moses reviews Israel’s failures in the wilderness, he emphasizes the sin of the spies. At first glance, that seems surprising. Wasn’t the sin of the Golden Calf even more serious? Why does Moses focus so heavily on the spies?

One answer is that the two sins were fundamentally different.

The Golden Calf was primarily a sin against God. The sin of the spies, however, was not only a failure of faith in God—it was also a failure of faith in the Jewish people and in the Land of Israel. Ten of the twelve spies concluded that the mission was impossible. They did not believe the nation could conquer the land, despite God’s promise. Only Joshua and Caleb had the courage to say, “Yes, we can.”

That contrast brings to mind an interesting moment in American history.

In 1804, shortly after the Louisiana Purchase, President Thomas Jefferson commissioned Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to explore the vast new territory. Their expedition encountered enormous dangers. They crossed difficult terrain, endured harsh weather, and even survived attacks from wild animals, including grizzly bears. Yet their reports did not conclude that the task was impossible. Instead, they acknowledged the hardships while affirming that the territory could be explored, settled, and developed.

That spirit eventually became associated with what Americans called Manifest Destiny—the belief that the nation had a mission to settle the continent from coast to coast. The pioneers who followed Lewis and Clark faced extraordinary hardships. Establishing farms in places such as Oklahoma, the Dakotas, and other frontier regions required tremendous courage, sacrifice, and perseverance. Yet they believed the mission could be accomplished.

The spies reached the opposite conclusion.

After only two years in the wilderness, they saw the challenges and declared, “We cannot do it.”

Now, forty years later, Moses stands before a new generation. The entire Book of Deuteronomy takes place during the final month of his life. He reminds the people that entering the Land of Israel will not be easy. They will no longer experience the daily open miracles of the wilderness. The manna will cease. They will have to farm, defend themselves, build cities, establish courts, and create a functioning society.

God’s miracles will not disappear—but they will become more hidden.

Nevertheless, Moses teaches that the mission remains the same. The Jewish people are called to build a nation founded upon the Torah, demonstrating that a society can be both strong and ethical, both prosperous and moral, grounded in God’s principles.

That is precisely what the spies failed to understand. They measured the obstacles but forgot the mission.

Lewis and Clark acknowledged the obstacles but believed the mission was achievable.

Moses wanted the new generation to adopt that second outlook. Once a people loses confidence in its God-given mission, it has already surrendered. But when it embraces that mission with faith, determination, and hard work, even great challenges become opportunities.

That is a lesson as relevant today as it was on the plains of Moab.

Something to think about.

We have to remember that, while we value all people, we do not value all ideas. There are some ideas that cannot be justified.

Learning from Our Mistakes: The Timeless Message of Parshat Devarim

The Book of Deuteronomy (Devarim) begins in an unusual way. Moses gathers the Jewish people and starts reviewing the events of the previous forty years in the wilderness. He recalls their failures, their complaints, their moments of doubt, and the consequences that followed.

At first glance, it might seem as though Moses is simply reopening old wounds. Why remind a new generation of so many painful episodes?

Because that is not what he is doing.

The Torah does not recount our mistakes to embarrass us. It recounts them so that we will learn from them.

One of the remarkable features of the Bible is that it does not portray its heroes as flawless. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David—all are presented as human beings with strengths and weaknesses. Their greatness did not lie in never making mistakes. Their greatness lay in recognizing those mistakes, accepting responsibility, and growing from them.

That is one of Judaism’s most profound teachings. Perfection is not the goal. Growth is.

Parshat Devarim is always read before Tishah B’Av, the day on which we mourn the destruction of both Temples and many other tragedies in Jewish history. The Sages teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred between Jews.

The point of remembering these events is not to dwell on the past or assign blame. It is to ask ourselves what kind of society we are building today. Are we treating one another with dignity and respect? Are we strengthening the bonds of our community? Are we learning from history, or are we repeating it?

This message extends beyond Jewish history. Every individual, every family, every community, and every nation makes mistakes. Success does not come from pretending those mistakes never happened. It comes from having the honesty to confront them and the courage to change.

That is Moses’ final lesson before the Jewish people enter the Land of Israel. Freedom brings responsibility. A mature nation does not ignore its past; it studies it, learns from it, and resolves to do better.

As we read Parshat Devarim and prepare for Tishah B’Av, we are reminded that our past should never be a prison. It should be a teacher.

If we are willing to learn from our mistakes, then even our failures can become the foundation for a stronger future.