Higher Horizons (Ki Teitzei)
Ki Teitzei is overflowing with mitzvot. Tradition counts 613 commandments in the Torah, and this portion packs in more than any other – seventy-four. War, wages, family, fields – an entire society’s ethics compressed into one parashah.
Tucked among laws of conflict and consequence, a quiet verse about home:
כִּ֤י תִבְנֶה֙ בַּ֣יִת חָדָ֔שׁ וְעָשִׂ֥יתָ מַעֲקֶ֖ה לְגַגֶּ֑ךָ וְלֹֽא־תָשִׂ֤ים דָּמִים֙ בְּבֵיתֶ֔ךָ כִּֽי־יִפֹּ֥ל הַנֹּפֵ֖ל מִמֶּֽנּוּ׃
“When you build a new house, you shall make a parapet for your roof, so that you do not bring blood upon your house. (Deut. 22:8)
The same portion that begins with war also imagines the day after – when we go home and build. The mitzvah of ma’akeh, a parapet, is pragmatic: put a protective fence around the roof so no one falls. But tradition reads it broadly. Even if the person who climbs up there isn’t invited, even if they “had no right” to be on your property, their vulnerability is still your concern. If it’s your roof, you’re responsible for its safety.
The sages extend the obligation beyond new construction. Move into a place? Inherit one? It’s yours now – so is the duty to make it safe (Sifrei 229:1-10). That teaching became personal for me just this week, as I helped my eldest child move into her first apartment in New York City. Old beams, old stairs, old stories surround new experiences. We typically live in structures we did not build, which is why the sages elsewhere (Gittin 55a) teach that, if after inheriting a house, we discover a stolen beam was incorporated into its structure, it is our responsibility to repair it. We live here now. It is our responsibility to ensure the integrity of our homes.
New York City’s administrative code, in fact, began requiring regular parapet inspections in 2024. This new law recognizes what Torah already knew: safety is an ongoing practice, not a one-time checklist. A home isn’t truly “ours” if it endangers those who cross its threshold – invited or not.
But the ma’akeh is more than a building code. The Shelah, Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz (1555-1630), hears the verse as spiritual instruction. When you have built, when you’ve reached a high place – physically or morally – don’t let the height make you haughty. Put a fence around your rooftop pride. Success without humility is a dangerous drop; from great heights, falls are farther. The Shelah asks us to ring our accomplishments with conscience.
That matters this year. Israel is engaged in the painful work of self-examination since October 7th – reviewing intelligence, supply lines, the conduct of war, the obligations to civilians and to our own soldiers. Physical vigilance matters. So does metaphysical vigilance. We must protect life and also guard the spirit that protects life: the capacity for truth, for accountability, for humility, for compassion. The commandment of ma’akeh demands inspection – again and again. Not once. Always.
And while we give thanks for tender signs of rebuilding – kindergarten children boarding school buses again, soldiers and volunteers in the Nahal Brigade returning South and North to strengthen communities – we remember the 48 beloveds still not home. We refuse to forget them. The Torah’s question presses: what kind of home are we building, and for whom are we making it safe?
I think of that little girl, once held captive, now walking into kindergarten. May she be allowed to live as a child, in privacy and peace. One day she, too, will inherit the house we’re so passionately rebuilding. What beams will she find? What fences will we have built that need mending? What parapets will she noticed we did not build?
“With great power comes great responsibility,” taught the great Stan Lee through his heroes. The Torah said it earlier and more simply: build a ma’akeh. Reach high – yes. Then safeguard the height. If we have earned a broader horizon, that means our responsibilities extend farther than before – within our homes and beyond our borders. The higher we climb, the more people can be hurt by our missteps – and the more people can be protected by our care.
So: Build a parapet. Then check it. Check it again. Safety is a Torah mandate. Character is a sacred maintenance. People are counting on us, sometimes people we don’t even know, sometimes people who were never invited onto our roof. That, says Torah, is precisely the point.
May we not take for granted how far we’ve come. May we keep inspecting the places we’ve repaired and the roofs we’ve neglected. May we build homes that hold the values that built us – chesed, justice, humility, courage. May we remember our story and widen the circle of those protected by our roofs.
We asked for this work, and we want it. Let’s be worthy of the house we’ve inherited – and the one we’re called to continue building.
