The Torah commands us to treat people as adults. That, as adults, we are responsible for our actions. We treat children as children until they reach adulthood.

With Freedom Comes Responsibility — Parshat Nitzavim

Good morning. Now for a quick devar Torah.

As I mentioned yesterday, Parshat Nitzavim takes place on the final day of Moses’ life. The Jewish people are about to enter the Land of Israel, and Moses is giving them his final instructions before they begin the next stage of their national existence.

For forty years they have lived in the wilderness under God’s direct protection. Now they are going to enter the land, establish communities, build a government, work the land, conduct business, administer justice, and create a functioning society.

And that was really the purpose of the entire journey from Egypt.

The Exodus was not simply about taking slaves out of Egypt. It was about transforming those slaves into free people capable of building an ethical and moral society based upon law. They were entering a land situated at the crossroads of the ancient world, where other nations could see what a society governed by the principles of the Torah could look like.

That is why Moses makes a remarkable point at the beginning of the parsha. He says that everyone is standing there: the leaders, the elders, the officers, the children, the strangers, even those who chop the wood and draw the water.

Everybody.

From the greatest scholar to the simplest laborer, from the wealthy to the poor, everyone is part of the same covenant.

The Torah was not given only to Moses, the priests, the judges, or an intellectual elite. It was given to the entire nation. Every person therefore has both a place in society and a responsibility toward that society.

And Moses emphasizes that this covenant is not a one-time agreement. It is an enduring commitment extending beyond the generation standing before him. The society they are about to build must transmit these principles from generation to generation.

In a sense, Moses is describing a society that must be built from the bottom up, not merely from the top down.

A society that depends entirely upon a king or ruler can change when the ruler changes. But when ordinary people accept certain principles as their own responsibilities, those principles become embedded in the culture itself. They become much harder to erase.

This brings us to another important lesson: personal responsibility.

Today we sometimes become so concerned with explaining people’s behavior that we begin excusing it. We say someone came from a difficult background, had poor opportunities, or did not know better. Those circumstances may help us understand why someone acted a certain way, and they may even affect how we judge the person. But they do not eliminate the fundamental idea that human beings are responsible for their choices.

There is an old principle in American law: ignorance of the law is generally no excuse.

Moses is making sure that the Jewish people cannot say, “Nobody told us.” The Torah has been placed before the entire nation. They have accepted it, and therefore they have responsibilities under it.

That responsibility is itself part of what it means to be free.

We cannot blame a lion for killing an antelope. The lion follows its nature. We cannot blame the antelope for running from the lion. It follows its nature as well.

Human beings are different.

God gave us the ability to choose. We can consider our actions, distinguish right from wrong, and decide how we are going to behave. That freedom gives human beings tremendous dignity—but it also places a tremendous burden upon us.

We are responsible for the choices we make.

That may be one of Moses’ most important messages on the final day of his life. The Jewish people were leaving the protected existence of the wilderness and entering the responsibilities of freedom.

And the lesson remains just as important today:

Freedom without responsibility cannot build a lasting society. With freedom comes responsibility.

Something to think about.

In this week’s portion Moses gives his last speech to the Jews. This is the last day of his life and he wants to stress that their fate is in their hands. That we are not fated by our birth or status. We can overcome our difficulties through keeping the commandments.

We Are Not Prisoners of Fate

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

This week’s parsha, Nitzavim, takes place on the last day of Moses’ life. The Jewish people have been out of Egypt for forty years. They are no longer slaves. They have spent forty years in the wilderness under God’s protection, with their needs provided for.

Now everything is about to change.

The Jewish people are preparing to enter the Land of Israel. They will have to conquer the land, establish a government, build a society, work the land, and live as an independent nation based upon the Torah.

So what does Moses choose to emphasize in his final address?

One of his most powerful messages is that we are not prisoners of fate.

The Torah tells us:

“See, I have set before you today life and good, death and evil.”

And then Moses tells us:

“Choose life.”

That is an extraordinary statement. We have choices. Where we came from does not necessarily determine where we are going.

There is a famous Talmudic story about the daughter of Rabbi Akiva. Astrologers predicted that she would die from a snakebite on her wedding day.

The wedding took place, and the next morning Rabbi Akiva discovered that his daughter was alive. During the wedding festivities, a poor person had come looking for food. While everyone else was busy celebrating, Rabbi Akiva’s daughter noticed him and gave him her own portion.

Later, when she removed the pin from her hair and stuck it into the wall, the pin pierced and killed a snake that could have killed her.

Rabbi Akiva understood the lesson: “Tzedakah delivers from death.”

Her destiny was not sealed. Through an act of righteousness, she had changed the outcome.

That is a profoundly Jewish idea.

We are not told that our circumstances are irrelevant. They certainly affect us. But they do not have to define us.

You may have been born into poverty. You may have grown up in difficult circumstances. People may tell you that because of your background you can only go so far. But the Torah rejects the idea that your past must dictate your future.

History gives us many examples. Andrew Jackson was orphaned during the Revolutionary War and came from very modest circumstances, yet eventually became President of the United States. Harry Truman came from a family of modest means, struggled in business, and never graduated from college, yet he too eventually reached the presidency.

If you had looked at either of them early in life, you might never have predicted where they would end up.

That is Moses’ message to the Jewish people as they prepare to enter the Promised Land.

You have choices.

You can choose how you respond to your circumstances. You can choose whether to follow the Torah. You can choose whether to perform acts of kindness and righteousness. You can choose whether to allow your past to define your future.

God gives us the Torah and shows us the path, but ultimately Moses says:

“Choose life.”

Your starting point does not have to determine your destination.

Something to think about.

God wants us to serve Him with joy. That we can show the world what true service to God is. That we serve God, not only in prayer but in how we treat each other and that we treat each other morally and ethically with joy.

A Mission From God — And Why We Must Remember It

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

In this week’s parsha, Ki Tavo, we encounter the Tochacha—the Torah’s powerful warning about what can happen to the Jewish people if we abandon our responsibilities.

But before the Torah gives us the warnings, it gives us the blessings.

If we follow God’s commandments, if we remember who we are and why we were chosen, and if we serve God with gladness and joy, then we are promised blessing in our endeavors. But if we forget God, forget our mission, and forget the reason for our existence as a people, the Torah warns that terrible consequences can follow.

The important point is that God did not choose the Jewish people because we were superior to everyone else. He did not choose us because we were smarter or stronger. He chose us because of His covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and because He gave us a mission: to demonstrate what a nation can become when it attempts to live morally and ethically according to the Torah.

Perhaps that helps explain why the Land of Israel is located where it is.

God could have put us in Fiji. Nothing against Fiji, but Fiji is in the middle of the Pacific. You generally do not pass through Fiji on your way somewhere else. The same can be said about New Zealand. If you are going to New Zealand, you are going to New Zealand.

Israel is different. The ancient Land of Israel stood at the crossroads of civilizations—between Africa, Asia, and the Mediterranean world. Nations and empires passed through it. Israel was in a position where other peoples could see it.

The Jewish people were therefore not supposed to hide from the world. Our mission was to demonstrate to the world what a society governed by morality, justice, responsibility, and faith could look like.

In other words, we are on a mission from God.

But unlike the Blues Brothers, being on a mission from God does not give us permission to break every other law along the way!

Quite the opposite. Obeying the law and living ethically is the mission.

The Torah is telling us that our continued existence as a people is connected to remembering that purpose. When a nation forgets why it exists—when it loses its sense of mission and identity—it places its future in danger. History is filled with once-powerful nations and civilizations that eventually disappeared.

The Torah says, in effect: If you want to become simply another nation, then the things that happen to ordinary nations can happen to you. You can be conquered. You can be dispersed. You can disappear.

But if we seek God’s protection, we must strive to be worthy of that protection. We must remember the covenant, observe the commandments, and live according to the ethical and moral principles God has given us.

And we must do so with joy.

The joy comes from understanding that fulfilling the mitzvot is not merely a burden. It is the reason we were chosen. It is our opportunity to fulfill God’s will and to be proud and happy about who we are.

The Tochacha, therefore, is more than a warning about punishment. It is a warning about forgetting our purpose.

We must always remember where we came from, where we are going, and why we were chosen.

We are on a mission from God.

And the mission itself is to live accordingly.

Something to think about.

Being humble does not mean being docile. It means to strive to do something but being aware that we need God’s help in accomplishing our goal.

Good morning. Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parsha, Ki Tavo, begins with the commandment of Bikkurim, bringing the first fruits to the Temple. But the Torah doesn’t simply tell the farmer to bring his fruit. He must also make a declaration—and he has to say it out loud.

He recalls our national history: where our ancestors came from, how we went down to Egypt, how we became slaves, and how God took us out of Egypt and brought us to the Land of Israel.

Why is this declaration so important?

Because the farmer could easily look at his beautiful crop and say, “I did this. I planted. I worked the land. I watered it. I harvested it. This success belongs to me.”

And, of course, he did work hard. Judaism does not tell us to sit back and wait for God to do everything for us. We are expected to work, to strive, to build, and to accomplish.

But then the farmer takes those first fruits and stands before God and says, in effect: I worked hard, but I also know that I did not accomplish this alone.

That is Jewish humility.

Humility does not mean saying, “I am incapable of accomplishing anything.” Quite the opposite. We are supposed to accomplish things. We are supposed to use our talents and abilities. But we must recognize that those talents, the opportunities we receive, and ultimately our success are blessings from God.

The Torah then speaks about the tithes that support the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. Our success creates responsibilities. We are not isolated individuals. We are members of a society, and when God blesses us with success, part of that blessing must be used to help others.

That brings us back to the purpose of the Exodus.

God did not take the Jewish people out of Egypt simply because He had nothing better to do that day. And He did not free us merely so that we could stop being slaves. He freed us for a purpose: to become a holy nation governed by His laws and capable of serving as an example to the world.

There is a fellow at my synagogue who was one of the founders of the Student Struggle for Soviet Jewry, the movement of young American Jews who fought for the freedom of Soviet Jews. They organized demonstrations and worked tirelessly so that Jews trapped under Soviet Communism could have the freedom to leave and the freedom to live as Jews.

If you speak to him about what he accomplished, however, he is remarkably humble. His humility does not mean that he did nothing. He did a great deal. His humility is recognizing that he was given the opportunity to do something important, that he was fighting for something right, and that with God’s help his efforts succeeded.

There is a famous story about Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. When Lincoln was asked whether God was on the Union’s side, his response was essentially that his greater concern was whether the Union was on God’s side.

That is the humility the Torah is teaching us.

Our job is not merely to ask God to support whatever we have decided to do. Our job is to ask ourselves whether what we are doing is right, whether it fulfills the responsibilities God has given us, and whether we are using our abilities for a greater purpose.

Work hard. Accomplish things. Be proud of doing good.

But never forget where the blessings come from—and never forget why we were given them.

Something to think about.

God has invested in us talents and it is up to us to use them for the good. It is in our hands. We are not fated, we can change our future.

Ki Tavo: What Are We Doing With God’s Investment?

This week’s parsha, Ki Tavo, begins with the mitzvah of Bikkurim, bringing the first fruits to the Temple.

The Land of Israel was blessed with seven species, and after working throughout the year—planting, tending, harvesting—the farmer finally sees the fruits of his labor. He takes the first and best of those fruits and brings them to Jerusalem as an expression of gratitude to God.

But what does he say when he gets there?

He doesn’t simply say, “Thank You, God, for giving me a successful harvest.”

Instead, he tells our national story.

He remembers where we came from. He recalls the difficult beginnings of our ancestors. He remembers our slavery in Egypt, our suffering, and how God took us out of Egypt and brought us to the Land of Israel.

Why tell that entire story while holding a basket of fruit?

Because the Torah is teaching us that success must be understood in context.

The farmer worked hard. He planted. He watered. He harvested. His success did not simply fall from heaven. But at the same time, he must recognize that his success was not his alone. God gave him the land, the rain, the strength, the intelligence, and the opportunity to succeed.

The declaration of the first fruits also reminds us of something else: our past does not have to determine our future.

We were slaves, and we became a free nation.

We came from difficult beginnings, and we built a society.

We therefore should never believe that we are fated to remain trapped by whatever difficulties confront us. Whether those challenges are economic, social, national, or personal, God gives us tools and abilities with which we can confront them. The question is what we choose to do with those tools.

I am reminded of a famous American talk-show host who described his talent as something that had been loaned to him by God. His idea was that eventually God would ask him: What did you do with the talent I loaned you?

There is a powerful idea there.

Perhaps we can put it slightly differently. Our talents are not merely loans. They are investments.

God invests abilities in each of us. One person may have intelligence, another leadership ability, another compassion, another creativity, another the ability to teach or inspire others.

And eventually we have to ask ourselves:

What did I do with God’s investment in me?

That is one of the great lessons of Ki Tavo.

When we experience success, we should certainly take pride in the work we have done. But we should also remember where we came from, recognize the gifts that made our achievements possible, and be grateful to God for investing those abilities in us.

And the same is true collectively.

Ki Tavo reminds us that we are not merely individuals. We are a nation with a shared history, a shared destiny, and shared responsibilities.

God has invested extraordinary talents in our people. The question is not simply what talents we possess.

The question is:

What are we doing with them?

Something to think about.

Being grateful to God is one of the hardest things to do when we are successful. That is why there is a special commandment in the Torah to remind us of this.

This week’s parsha, Ki Tavo, begins with the mitzvah of Bikkurim, the bringing of the first fruits.

A farmer has worked an entire season. He planted. He watered. He cared for his fields. Finally, after all that effort, he sees the first fruits of his labor.

But instead of simply enjoying his success, the Torah tells him to take those first fruits to the Temple and make a declaration.

And what does he talk about?

He talks about our history. He remembers our beginnings, our suffering in Egypt, how God took us out of slavery, and how God brought us into the Land of Israel — “a land flowing with milk and honey.” Then he says, in effect: Here are the first fruits of the land that You, God, have given me.

That is a remarkable statement.

The farmer could easily say, “What do you mean God gave me this? I did the work! I planted the seeds. I watered the fields. I worked from morning until night.”

And that is all true.

Judaism does not tell us to sit back and wait for miracles. We are expected to work. We are expected to make an effort. We are expected to do everything we reasonably can to succeed.

But after we have done all that, we must recognize that the final result is not entirely in our hands.

There is a famous story about a printer in Bnei Brak who, for many years, essentially had a monopoly on the local printing business. Then another printer came to town and opened a competing shop.

Everyone expected trouble. Surely the established printer would be furious about this new competition.

Instead, one evening, the established printer knocked on the new printer’s door.

He handed him a list.

“These are the customers who pay on time. These are the customers you may have to chase for payment. These are the reliable suppliers, and these are the ones you need to be careful with.”

The new printer was astonished.

“Why are you helping me? We’re competitors!”

The older printer answered with a profound idea:

“My livelihood is ultimately in God’s hands. If God wants me to succeed, you cannot take that success away from me. And if God does not want me to succeed, keeping this information from you will not save me.”

That does not mean he stopped working hard. Of course he worked hard. But he understood the difference between effort and outcome.

And perhaps that is one of the great lessons of Bikkurim.

We have an obligation to plant. We have an obligation to water. We have an obligation to work hard and make wise decisions.

But when the fruit finally appears, we should have the humility to say:

I worked for this — but I did not accomplish it alone.

Whether our success is in business, our profession, our family, or anything else in life, Ki Tavo reminds us not to fall into the trap of believing, “My strength and the power of my own hand made me successful.”

Work hard. Make the effort. Do everything you can.

But when you succeed, remember to say two very important words:

Thank God.

Something to think about.

The commandment to keep accurate weights and measures in business comes before the commandment to destroy Amalek. The meaning is simple. Unethical business practices will destroy society from within. That is when Amalek strikes.

When Amalek Attacks

This week’s parsha ends with two mitzvot that seem, at first glance, to have almost nothing to do with one another.

First, the Torah commands us to be absolutely honest in business. We are forbidden to use dishonest weights and measures or to cheat someone in a transaction. Then, immediately afterward, the Torah commands us to remember what Amalek did to us and to ultimately eradicate Amalek.

Why does the Torah put these two commandments together?

Rashi notices this connection and gives us a remarkable insight. He explains that when a person cheats in business, he should be afraid of the consequences: Amalek will come.

What does that mean?

Amalek represents an enemy from outside—but the Torah is teaching us that an external enemy becomes truly dangerous when a society has already been weakened from within.

A society is held together by trust. When I buy something from you, I need to trust that your weights are accurate. When you make a promise, I need to trust that you will keep it. When we conduct business, I need to believe that you are not trying to take advantage of me.

Once that trust disappears, society begins to fall apart.

And that is precisely the opposite of what Torah demands.

The Torah commands us to create a society in which people look after one another, especially those who are vulnerable. Amalek represents the opposite of that ideal. Amalek attacked the weak and the vulnerable. They did not simply wage war against an army; they targeted those who were struggling and unable to defend themselves.

The Torah therefore presents a profound contrast.

Torah says: Protect the vulnerable.
Amalek says: Exploit the vulnerable.

Torah says: Be honest with your fellow human being.
Amalek says: Take whatever you can.

Torah builds trust and community.
Amalek destroys trust and human dignity.

And this is why the commandments are placed next to each other.

We often think that defending a Jewish society means protecting ourselves from enemies who come from outside. Of course, that is important. But the Torah reminds us that the first line of defense is what happens inside our society.

If we cheat one another, exploit one another, and lose trust in one another, we have already weakened ourselves.

But when we conduct our business honestly, when we treat other people with dignity, when we help those who are in need, and when we create a society based upon Torah values, we become stronger.

The message is therefore much larger than simply, “Don’t cheat your customers.”

The Torah is telling us:

Build a society that is honest, just, compassionate, and worthy of being defended.

Because before we worry about what our enemies are doing to us from the outside, we have to ask ourselves what we are doing to one another on the inside.

And perhaps that is the ultimate lesson of the juxtaposition of these mitzvot:

Amalek does not begin at the border. Amalek begins when trust breaks down within a society.

Our task is to make sure that it never begins with us.

We are admonished not to punish the fathers for the sins of the sons and not to punish the sons for the sins of the father. This is a fundamental principal in the Torah. God gave us free will but free will means that we are responsible for our actions.

Good morning. This is a powerful Torah idea: moral responsibility is individual, even though sin has social consequences.

What stands out is the distinction between punishment and responsibility. The Torah rejects inherited guilt: a child does not bear the punishment for a parent’s wrongdoing, nor does a parent bear punishment for a child’s crime. Yet that does not mean that the community or family is irrelevant. We are shaped by our environments, and a society can create conditions in which wrongdoing becomes thinkable, acceptable, or easy to conceal.

The concept of free will is therefore central. A human being is not merely an animal responding to instinct, nor a slave responding to a master’s command. A person possesses agency—the capacity to choose differently, to recognize wrongdoing, and ultimately to change.

That makes the Torah’s system remarkably nuanced. When someone commits a grave crime, society may have to punish the individual severely. But it must also ask: What kind of society produced the circumstances in which this person believed he could do this? What did the family, community, and culture teach him to regard as normal? Those questions are for moral examination and education, not for transferring guilt to innocent people.

And perhaps that is one of the Torah’s most important messages as we enter the period of establishing a society and governing a nation: we are responsible for our choices, and we are also responsible for the society in which those choices are made. We cannot blame an innocent child for the sins of a parent. But neither can we pretend that our families and communities have no influence on the choices people make.

The individual has agency—and because he has agency, he also has the possibility of teshuvah, change, and becoming better. That is both a profound statement about human freedom and a profound statement about human dignity.

When we marry for the wrong reasons the end result is anger. Physical beauty will disappear, but their inner beauty will last.

This week’s parsha, Parshat Ki Teitzei, begins with one of the Torah’s most famous and unusual cases: the eshet yefat to’ar, the beautiful woman whom a soldier encounters during war.

What is striking is that the Torah could have spoken about war on the national level—how the Jewish people should conduct themselves as a nation. But that was already addressed in the previous parsha. Here, the Torah focuses on something much more personal: the individual soldier and how he behaves when confronted with powerful emotions and desires.

Imagine the situation. A soldier has just come through battle. He has experienced fear, violence, and the possibility of death. His emotions are running at their highest. He sees a beautiful woman from the enemy camp and wants to take her as a wife. In the ancient world, this was not unusual. Conquering armies often treated the women of the defeated population as part of the spoils of war.

But the Torah places restrictions on this desire. The soldier cannot simply take her immediately. She must be given time to mourn her parents and family. She changes her clothing and appearance and is given a period of time before the soldier can decide whether he still wants to marry her.

Why?

Perhaps the Torah is teaching us something fundamental about human nature: an emotion may be real, but that does not mean we have to act on it immediately.

The Torah recognizes the yetzer hara. It recognizes that human beings experience powerful desires, especially under difficult circumstances. But recognizing our impulses does not mean surrendering to them. We are responsible for what we do with those impulses.

And then the Torah moves to another difficult family situation. We are told about a man who has two wives, one beloved and one unloved. The unloved wife has the firstborn son, and the Torah insists that the father cannot deprive that son of his firstborn rights simply because he dislikes the boy’s mother.

Then comes the ben sorer u’moreh, the rebellious son.

When we place these passages next to one another, we can see a larger message emerging. The Torah may be showing us how one decision can lead to another, and how our personal choices can create consequences far beyond the moment in which we make them.

A soldier acts on his desire. A marriage develops out of that desire. That marriage becomes part of a complicated family structure. Resentment and favoritism enter the home. Eventually, children are affected by the environment their parents have created.

The Torah is reminding us: our actions do not stop with us.

We often think of responsibility as meaning, “I am responsible for what I did.” But the Torah asks us to think more deeply. We should also ask: What will my action produce? Who else will be affected? What kind of future am I creating through the choices I make today?

This is especially important because we all have a yetzer hara. We all experience anger, jealousy, desire, frustration, and temptation. The Torah does not pretend otherwise. But having an impulse is not the same thing as acting on it.

Sometimes the most important thing we can do is pause.

Give it time. Think about the consequences. Think about the other person. Think about our family. Think about the community. Think about who we will become because of the decision we are about to make.

That may be one of the central lessons of Ki Teitzei. The Torah takes us from the battlefield into the home and reminds us that personal behavior has social consequences. A decision made in one moment can affect a marriage, a family, a child, and even the next generation.

We cannot always control what we feel. But we can control what we do with those feelings.

Ki Teitzei therefore teaches us a powerful form of personal responsibility: before we act on what we want right now, we should ask ourselves, “What happens next?”

If we learn to ask that question, we can make better choices—not only for ourselves, but for the people and communities whose lives are connected to ours.

Something to think about.

The Torah is clear that we are obligated to respect the dignity of all people. That is why we are commanded to pay our workers when it is their payday. The basis is that all people were created in the image of God.

One of the important themes in this week’s parsha is the concept of human dignity. The Torah teaches us that every person deserves to be treated with dignity, regardless of their social position or circumstances, because every human being is created in the image of God.

We see this in the Torah’s laws concerning a worker. If someone works for you, you cannot simply pay them whenever it is convenient for you. The Torah commands us to pay a day laborer on time, even that very night. Why is this so important? Because this person worked for you. They gave you their time and their effort, and they deserve to receive what they earned when it is due to them. Their needs and their dignity matter.

We see another dimension of this idea in the mitzvah of leket—the obligation to leave behind stalks of grain that accidentally fall during the harvest. The farmer is not supposed to go back and collect them. They are left for the poor.

But a question arises: If the goal is to help poor people, why not make it easier? Why not have the farmer collect the grain, turn it into flour and bread, and simply give the poor person the finished product? Why make someone who is already struggling spend time gathering the grain and then take it somewhere to have it processed?

Perhaps the answer is that the Torah is not concerned only with providing someone with food. It is also concerned with preserving that person’s dignity and independence.

When we simply give someone something, they become the passive recipient of our generosity. But when we create an opportunity for someone to participate—to work, to gather, to accomplish something for themselves—we are giving them more than a material benefit. We are affirming their ability and their worth.

There is an important principle here: helping someone does not always mean doing everything for them. Sometimes the greatest form of help is giving a person the opportunity and the tools to help themselves.

This idea appears in Pirkei Avot as well. We are taught that a parent should teach a child a trade. The message is that we have a responsibility to prepare a person to become self-sufficient and productive. Providing for someone today is important, but helping them develop the ability to provide for themselves is an even deeper form of kindness.

And this connects back to the fundamental idea of human dignity. A person should not be defined by their poverty, their occupation, their social status, or their circumstances. They are a human being, and therefore they possess inherent worth.

There is a beautiful story told about the Vilna Gaon. When a simple Russian peasant would come into his study, the Vilna Gaon would stand up. His students once asked him, essentially, “Why are you standing for this man?”

The Vilna Gaon explained that he wasn’t standing because of the man’s social status or education. He was standing for the image of God in which that man was created.

That is a powerful way to look at the people we encounter every day. We may see someone who is wealthy or poor, powerful or powerless, educated or uneducated. We may admire some people and have difficulty respecting others. But beneath all of those differences is something that never changes: every person carries within them the image of God.

The Torah’s laws about workers and the poor remind us that dignity is not something we give to people who have earned it. Dignity is something every person already possesses.

Our responsibility is simply to recognize it—and to treat every person accordingly.