Lech Lecha: Abraham’s Legacy Is Not a Performance

The difference between performing righteousness and becoming a blessing

There are moments when the political climate becomes so consuming that it threatens to swallow the very values it claims to defend. Even acts of compassion become political statements. Even gestures of solidarity become opportunities to attract attention. And sometimes, in our determination to demonstrate that we stand on the right side of history, we lose sight of the people we set out to help.

This week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha, offers us a way to think about this troubling phenomenon.

On October 21, Jewish leaders, rabbis, activists, and Brad Lander, the Democratic nominee for Congress in New York’s 10th District, joined Palestinian farmers near Bethlehem to help harvest their olive trees. Israeli military and police forces detained approximately 80 volunteers, including Lander, who was subsequently released. Israeli authorities cited security and coordination concerns, while the organizers disputed the justification for the detentions. The incident quickly became international news. (Associated Press; The Times of Israel)

Let me be clear: helping a Palestinian farmer harvest his olives is a good thing. A farmer should be able to cultivate his land, gather the fruit of his labor, and provide for his family without fear of violence or intimidation. I am disgusted by the violence perpetrated by some Jewish settlers in Judea and Samaria, and I am deeply troubled by the Israeli government’s failure to confront such violence with the consistency and determination that Jewish morality demands.

A government that claims to represent the Jewish people has a particular responsibility to ensure that Jewish power is exercised with justice. When authorities fail to protect innocent people from violence, something has gone profoundly wrong.

This should have been an opportunity to do good.

And yet, I find myself asking a difficult question: When does the desire to do good become entangled with the desire to be seen doing good?

I do not presume to know the private motivations of those who participated. Some may have been motivated by sincere religious conviction, a desire to protect Palestinian farmers, or a deeply felt obligation to oppose injustice. Those are legitimate and important motivations.

But I wonder whether the same assistance could have been provided without turning the event into an international political spectacle. Could these volunteers have helped the farmer harvest his olives, protected his ability to work his land, and challenged injustice without making their own arrest the centerpiece of the story?

Perhaps a public presence was necessary to deter violence and draw attention to a dangerous situation. Public protest can serve an important moral purpose. Nevertheless, we should be willing to ask whether the political climate has become so consuming that even doing good must become a performance.

Abraham’s calling: To become a blessing

The opening of Lech Lecha introduces Abraham, whose life would transform the religious imagination of the world. God calls him to leave his homeland, his birthplace, and his father’s house and journey toward an unknown destination.

But Abraham’s journey is not simply about where he will live. It is about what his life will mean.

God tells him:

בראשית י״ב:ב׳–ג׳

וְאֶעֶשְׂךָ לְגוֹי גָּדוֹל וַאֲבָרֶכְךָ וַאֲגַדְּלָה שְׁמֶךָ וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה׃

וַאֲבָרֲכָה מְבָרְכֶיךָ וּמְקַלֶּלְךָ אָאֹר וְנִבְרְכוּ בְךָ כֹּל מִשְׁפְּחֹת הָאֲדָמָה׃

“I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed through you.” (Genesis 12:2–3)

One phrase deserves particular attention: וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה — “And you shall be a blessing.”

God does not merely promise Abraham success, security, descendants, or a distinguished reputation. God gives him a responsibility. Abraham is to become a source of blessing beyond himself and beyond his own family. His life is to contribute something meaningful to the lives of others.

The promise that Abraham’s name will become great is immediately followed by the command that he become a blessing. His reputation is not the ultimate objective. What matters is what he does with his calling.

This distinction is essential.

Abraham is not called to establish a new faith so that he can be admired by the world. He is called to establish a way of life through which the world might become better. His relationship with God must have consequences for the way human beings treat one another.

That is the essence of ethical monotheism: the belief that there is one God who holds human beings accountable to a moral order, and that faith must be expressed through the way we live.

Judaism is not simply a collection of beliefs to proclaim. It is a collection of obligations to fulfill.

Rashi: The blessings are entrusted to our hands

Rashi, the great medieval commentator, draws attention to God’s unusual instruction to Abraham.

On the words וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה, Rashi writes:

וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה — הַבְּרָכוֹת נְתוּנוֹת בְּיָדְךָ.

“Be a blessing — the blessings are entrusted to your hand.”

Rashi explains that God had previously bestowed blessings upon Adam and Noah. With Abraham, however, the ability to bless others is placed in his hands. Abraham is no longer merely the recipient of God’s goodness. He becomes an agent through whom goodness can enter the world.

What a remarkable understanding of religious responsibility!

Abraham’s greatness is measured not only by his relationship with God, but by what he does with the gifts and opportunities God places in his hands. His calling is fulfilled when blessing moves outward, reaching people whose lives can be improved by his actions.

This is the standard by which we should measure ourselves as Jews.

Are we making the world more compassionate? Are we protecting the vulnerable? Are we standing against cruelty, even when the perpetrators belong to our own community? Are we using our influence to improve the lives of others?

Or have we become so preoccupied with demonstrating our virtue that we have confused the public display of our values with the actual fulfillment of them?

Performative, inflammatory, and authentic goodness

We need to make an important distinction. Not every public demonstration is performative, and not every act that attracts attention is insincere. Sometimes, doing what is right requires us to stand publicly against injustice, even when doing so is unpopular or carries a personal cost. Silence can be as morally consequential as speech.

But there is a difference between the performative, the inflammatory, and the authentic.

Performative action is concerned with how goodness looks. Its emphasis is on the image we project, the message we communicate about ourselves, and the recognition we receive from others. The danger is that the people we claim to help become secondary to the story we want to tell about ourselves. We may succeed in demonstrating our virtue without accomplishing very much for those in need.

Inflammatory action is concerned with provoking a reaction. It seeks confrontation, outrage, or polarization, sometimes because the resulting attention becomes more valuable than the practical good that might otherwise be accomplished. Provocation can expose injustice that society would prefer to ignore. But when confrontation becomes the objective rather than a means toward a just end, the cause itself becomes captive to the spectacle.

Authentic, principled action is concerned with the good itself. It begins with a genuine moral conviction and asks what will actually help. It is willing to be public when publicity serves the cause and willing to work quietly when quiet action is more effective. It does not require applause, and it does not measure success by the number of headlines generated. It measures success by whether suffering has been relieved, injustice confronted, and human dignity protected.

These categories are not mutually exclusive. A principled protest may be highly visible and provoke anger because the injustice it exposes is genuinely outrageous. Someone can sincerely desire to help and still make strategic mistakes. We cannot determine another person’s motives simply by looking at a photograph or reading a headline.

But we can examine the relationship between our intentions, our methods, and our results.

Were we there to help the farmer harvest his olives, and did our actions make that possible? Did our presence protect him, draw necessary attention to his predicament, or advance his ability to work his land safely? Could the same good have been accomplished more effectively without creating a confrontation? And after the demonstration ended, what changed for the person whose needs brought us there?

These are questions every person committed to justice should be willing to ask.

The olive trees do not care who receives credit for harvesting their fruit. The farmer cares whether the olives are gathered, whether his livelihood is protected, and whether he can return to his land tomorrow without fear.

The ultimate measure of a good deed is not how much attention it attracts, but how much good it accomplishes.

When Jewish power forgets Jewish ethics

There is, however, another side to this story, and it is the one that troubles me most deeply as a rabbi.

We cannot allow our suspicion of political theater to become an excuse for ignoring injustice. Nor should we make the motives of volunteers the central issue while overlooking the conduct of those who exercise state power.

The Israeli government’s responsibility is greater than that of an individual activist. The state possesses the authority, resources, and legal obligations necessary to protect people living under its control. It must ensure that security restrictions are lawful and proportionate, that Palestinian farmers can cultivate their land, and that people who commit violence are held accountable.

The olive harvest has become an increasingly dangerous time for Palestinian farmers facing attacks, intimidation, property damage, and restrictions on access to their groves. These are not merely political talking points. They concern people’s livelihoods, their homes, and their ability to live with security and dignity.

I am disgusted by the actions of Jewish extremists who attack Palestinians, destroy property, intimidate farmers, or seek to drive people from their homes and land. Such behavior is not an expression of Jewish strength. It is a betrayal of Jewish ethics.

I am equally disturbed when government officials fail to confront such conduct with the urgency it demands. A government cannot credibly claim to uphold the rule of law if it appears more prepared to detain people offering peaceful assistance than to hold violent perpetrators accountable.

Jewish sovereignty is a remarkable achievement. The restoration of Jewish self-determination in our ancestral homeland carries extraordinary historical and spiritual meaning. But sovereignty is not a moral exemption. It is a moral responsibility.

The Torah does not teach that power makes us righteous. It teaches that power creates obligations.

We must be willing to say this precisely because we care about Israel, because we care about the Jewish people, and because we believe Judaism has something important to contribute to the moral life of humanity.

If we demand justice for Jews but remain silent when Palestinians are victimized, we undermine the universality of the ethical tradition Abraham represents. If we invoke Jewish history to explain our vulnerability but refuse to acknowledge the vulnerability of others, we have misunderstood the lessons of that history.

We should not need American politicians, foreign rabbis, or international headlines to remind us that protecting innocent people is a Jewish obligation. We should be doing it ourselves, consistently and courageously.

A light unto the nations

The prophet Isaiah gives the Jewish people a vision that has become central to our understanding of our purpose:

וּנְתַתִּיךָ לִבְרִית עָם לְאוֹר גּוֹיִם.

“I will make you a covenant people, a light unto the nations.” (Isaiah 42:6)

Being a light unto the nations does not mean seeking the approval of the nations. It does not mean staging events designed to impress the world, nor does it mean accepting every accusation leveled against Israel as true.

It means living in such a way that our values illuminate a better path.

A light does not draw attention to itself by announcing that it is bright. It illuminates what is around it. Its purpose is fulfilled in what others can see because the light is there.

That is what Abraham’s calling demands of us.

When a Jewish farmer helps a neighbor in need, that is a light. When an Israeli protects a Palestinian child from violence, that is a light. When a government prosecutes a Jewish extremist who has attacked an innocent person, that is a light. When a rabbi teaches that the dignity of every human being is a religious obligation, and then lives by that teaching, that is a light.

And when someone risks personal safety or reputation to protect a vulnerable person, that too can be a light.

The question is not whether an act of goodness becomes public. The question is whether publicity serves the goodness or replaces it.

We need public moral courage. We need people willing to speak when others remain silent. We need protests that expose wrongdoing and compel authorities to act. But we also need humility, practical wisdom, and a willingness to measure success by what happens to the people whose suffering inspired our actions.

We need fewer performances of righteousness and more of its difficult, unglamorous work.

The blessing that remains

I return to the words God spoke to Abraham: וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה — “And you shall be a blessing.”

The command is not to look like a blessing. It is not to be celebrated as a blessing. It is to become one.

This week’s events offered an opportunity for Jewish leaders and a political candidate to help a Palestinian farmer gather his harvest. The farmer’s needs were real, regardless of the politics surrounding the event. The detention of people seeking to assist him raises serious questions about how Israeli authorities are exercising their power.

We should not allow the controversy to obscure the work that remains to be done: protecting Palestinian farmers, confronting Jewish extremism, demanding accountability from the Israeli government, and insisting that Jewish ethical commitments apply even when their application is inconvenient.

At the same time, we should resist the assumption that generating headlines is the same as making a difference. It is fair to ask whether the public attention advanced the cause and whether the same assistance could have been provided more effectively. It is not fair to claim certainty about another person’s motives without evidence.

I want Jews to stand up against injustice. I want rabbis to teach that our obligations extend beyond our own community. I want Israel to be a country whose treatment of every human being reflects the highest aspirations of Jewish tradition.

Most of all, I want us to remember that Abraham’s legacy is not the size of his following, the prominence of his name, or the attention he attracts. It is the blessing he brings into the world.

There was a chance this week to do good. Let us ensure that the political controversy surrounding it does not obscure the good that must still be done.

The world does not need Jews who merely proclaim the values of Abraham. It needs Jews who practice them.

The world does not need us to put on a show of righteousness. It needs us to do the work of righteousness.

That is how we honor Abraham. That is how we fulfill the promise of ethical monotheism. And that is how we become a light unto the nations.

Shabbat shalom.