‘Guardrails’ Parashat Ki Tetze 5785
This week’s portion of Ki Tetze presents a deceptively simple commandment [Devarim 22:8]: “When you build a new house, you shall make a guardrail for your roof, so that you do not bring bloodguilt upon your house if the faller falls from it.” Rashi[1], quoting from the Talmud in Tractate Shabbat [32a], highlights the peculiar term “the faller (ha’nofel)”. Not “If a person (“adam”) falls” or “Lest[2] (pen) a person falls,” but “If the faller – one destined to fall – falls”. Rashi explains, “This particular person was deserving to fall from the time of creation but the Torah commands you to make sure his death does not come through you.” Some people are fated to fall; the decree is set, the judgment final. His death is not your fault – he was always going to die. But if he falls from your roof because you neglected to put up a guardrail, then you are still responsible. This seems like a clear-cut case of negligence. The Torah enjoins us to act responsibly so as to ensure that neither we, nor our chattel, nor our home, incurs damage. Indeed, the Talmud in Tractate Shabbat continues down this path by using the same verse as a source text to prohibit raising a pit-bull or a king cobra in one’s home. If something tends to cause damage, then it should not reside in your home.
The Kli Yakar[3] probes deeper: Why should the homeowner be accountable for a fated fall? Why should he even try to act against a Divine decree? If some person is destined to die, then he will die whether or not I build a guardrail. Maybe my guardrail will save some other innocent person, but not this guy. He is going to die in a fall, even if it means that he slips in the bathroom. Now don’t misunderstand me: Our question is not “Why, then, should I build the guardrail?” Of course you must build it, otherwise you will be sued for criminal negligence and potentially for manslaughter. Our question here is on the wording of the Torah: Why is there “bloodguilt upon our house”? Why should we be besmirched for something that was going to happen no matter what we did?
The Talmud in Tractate Sukkah [53a] recounts a story involving King Solomon and two scribes. One day, Solomon noticed the Angel of Death looking sad. When asked why, the Angel replied that he was tasked with taking the lives of those two scribes. To protect the scribes, Solomon handed them to his demons and sent them far away to the district of Luz, a place believed to be beyond the Angel of Death’s reach. Upon arriving in Luz, the two scribes died. The next day, Solomon saw the Angel of Death who was simply beaming. When questioned, the Angel explained that he was instructed to take their lives specifically in Luz. Since they never left Solomon’s palace on their own, Solomon’s decision to send them to Luz enabled the Angel to fulfill his mission. Solomon then reflected, saying, “The feet of a person are responsible for him; to the place where he is in demand, there they lead him.” Fate is inevitable. The scribes’ attempt to escape death led them directly to the only place where it could claim them. So why should we waste our time building guardrails?
The Kli Yakar brings an answer that stings: G-d decides who dies, but our actions determine how and through whom. Without a guardrail, we open the door, letting the decree land. We give Divine judgment a physical form, becoming the conduit for tragedy. Tragedy might have been woven into the fabric of history but it did not have to happen on our watch.
Which brings us to October 7. The Massacre of October 7 was no mere tragedy – it was a collapse of defenses, intelligence, preparedness, and worst, judgment. The Torah’s warning was ignored: We thought the guardrail was not needed and that all we needed was a security fence. Israeli intelligence insisted: “Hamas is deterred. They don’t want war. They want stability, economic prosperity, Qatari money, work permits, salaries, to live alongside Israel in peace.” That was the doctrine, the belief, the analysis. It was dead wrong. Peace? We weren’t even living peacefully with each other – the country was on the brink of a civil war.
It was not just a failure. It was a betrayal of the Torah’s clear command to “build the guardrail,” even if you believe in peace, think things are fine, or are sure nothing will happen. The Torah does not ask for predictions; it demands responsibility. That is what collapsed long before October 7: not technology, but values; not the fence, but the will to defend it; not the border, but the belief we were at war. The Massacre of October 7 was years in the making. It can be cogently argued that the first breach in the fence occurred in 2005, when thousands of Jews were forcefully evicted from their homes in Gaza in the “Disengagement”, a politically-driven euphemism for “Expulsion”. More breaches were opened in 2008, 2011, and 2014, when the IDF chose to “mow the lawn” in response to Hamas terrorism rather than to uproot the source. October 7 was going to happen, but it did not have to happen on our watch. It was we who gave Divine judgment a physical form.
While we built coexistence, they built rockets. While we offered work permits, they rehearsed massacres. While our analysts preached deterrence, they dug tunnels and cut fences. We lowered our guardrails, believing they were unnecessary. And the fall came through our roof. The Kli Yakar would scream: “You thought genocidal fanatics were pacified with cash? You ignored warnings, dismissed alerts, and treated your fellow Jew like he was the enemy and now you ask why the fall happened through you?”
The last king of the Northern Kingdom of Israel[4] was Hosea the son of Elah. Unlike the kings that preceded him, Hosea was not a wicked idolator. Nevertheless, under his rule the Assyrians attacked and routed the Israelites. The ten tribes who lived in the Kingdom of Israel were exiled, never to return. Scripture notes that the kingdom fell not because of his sins but because of the accumulated sins of the earlier generations. The Talmud in Tractate Sanhedrin [102b] suggests that G-d’s patience with Israel’s sins had run out and even a relatively benign king like Hosea could not avert the decreed punishment. His reign was the final opportunity for repentance, but neither he nor the people seized it. His failure to “build the guardrail” of spiritual and political protection made him complicit in the tragedy, even if the decree predated his reign.
Since October 7, we have learned: Optimism earns no points, “strategic generosity” wins no medals, and being right about peace is not remembered. You are remembered for whether the faller fell from your roof. And he did. We cannot reverse the decree or revive the fallen, but we can rebuild our guardrail. Not just with remote weapon stations and sensors but with values: Leadership that faces truth, defence that respects enemy intent, and a society that prioritizes unity over narratives. The Torah’s guardrail is non-negotiable, even if you’re certain that no one will fall. It is especially then when that guardrail must be built. Hamas did not defeat us on October 7; we defeated ourselves by chasing fantasies, trusting savages to act like neighbours, and thinking the faller would fall elsewhere. The Torah doesn’t let you outsource the fall. Without a guardrail, it’s your blood, your responsibility. This Shabbat, let us reread “If the faller falls from it” and ask, “Was our guardrail up?” If not, what will we do to ensure it never happens again? Building the guardrail is not just a commandment. It is the difference between mourning tragedy and preventing the next one.
Ari Sacher, Moreshet, 5785
Please daven for a Refu’a Shelema for Iris bat Chana, Shlomo ben Esther, Sheindel Devora bat Rina, Esther Sharon bat Chana Raizel, Esther bat Hila, Meir ben Drora, and Hodayah Emunah bat Shoshana Rachel.
[1] Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, known by his acronym “Rashi,” was the most eminent of the medieval commentators. He lived in northern France in the 11th century.
[2] There is a seminal difference between the words “perhaps” and “lest”. The word “perhaps” connotes a desire for something to happen while the word “lest” connotes a desire for something not to happen. In this verse, where the Torah wants to prevent an action, the word “lest” would have more fitting than “if”.
[3] Shlomo Ephraim ben Aaron Luntschitz, who was the Chief Rabbi of Prague in the beginning of the 17th century, wrote a commentary on the Torah called “Kli Yakar.”
[4] After the reign of King Solomon, the Jews split into the northern Kingdom of Israel and the southern Kingdom of Judea.
