Seeing the End of Evil: Psalm 73 and Greenland

Seeing the End of Evil: Psalm 73, Greenland, and the Age of Trump

There are times when moral integrity is measured by gentleness of speech.

And there are times when moral integrity is measured by the ability to stop destruction before it becomes irreversible.

We are living in the second kind of moment.

A world in which nuclear weapons are no longer treated as an absolute taboo, but as a tool of public intimidation, is not a world that can be navigated only through refined language and good intentions. When leaders openly threaten annihilation, when the rhetoric of destruction becomes part of political performance, the question ceases to be merely political. It becomes existential.

In Jewish tradition there is a principle that stands above almost everything else: pikuach nefesh — the preservation of life. Not as a slogan, not as a metaphor, but as binding law. Nearly all commandments of the Torah are set aside for the sake of saving life. Not for convenience, not for power, but so that life itself may continue.

And this responsibility is not limited to individual lives. There is also collective pikuach nefesh — the obligation to prevent catastrophe when entire peoples and regions are at risk. In such moments, inaction is no longer neutral. It becomes a form of moral blindness.

The Talmud expresses this with striking clarity: “If someone comes to kill you, rise early and stop him.” This is not a call to vengeance or rage. It is a call to prevention — not after the blow has fallen, but when the path toward it is already visible.

Nuclear blackmail belongs precisely to this category. The button may not yet be pressed, but the finger rests openly upon it. That alone is enough to make deterrence a moral obligation.

Jewish ethics never demanded naïveté. It demanded responsibility. Deterrence is not a love of war, nor a thirst for domination. It is the creation of a reality in which an attack becomes meaningless because its cost would be immediate and unacceptable to the aggressor.

This is the lens through which the strengthening of American strategic presence in critical regions of the world should be understood. It is not territory as a goal, nor conquest for its own sake. The goal is the prevention of catastrophe. In this sense, places such as Greenland are not objects of greed, but spaces of responsibility. Strengthening security there is not directed against the land itself, but against those who have grown accustomed to waving the nuclear club. For Greenland, this means not threat, but protection and development.

Kabbalistic tradition deepens this understanding. The world cannot exist on kindness alone. Chesed without boundaries dissolves into chaos. For life to endure, gevurah — restraint, structure, strength — is necessary. At times, a firm boundary becomes the highest form of mercy, because it prevents tragedy rather than mourning it after the fact.

The history of Israel’s kings illustrates this clearly. David was a warrior not because he loved war, but because he understood that without security there could be no Temple, no Psalms, no peace. Solomon could become a king of tranquility only because protection had already been established. A leader who refuses strength at a moment of mortal danger is not moral. He is irresponsible.

Here Psalm 73 becomes essential. This psalm, attributed to Asaph — a Levite, a psalmist, and a disciple of King David — is among the most honest texts in the Book of Psalms about the fate of evil. Asaph confesses that he nearly stumbled when he saw the prosperity of the wicked: their confidence, their calm, their apparent immunity from consequence.

The turning point comes when Asaph enters the sanctuary of God. Nothing external changes — only his perspective. He stops seeing the moment and begins to see direction. Not surface success, but outcome. He realizes that the flourishing of evil is not proof of its legitimacy, but part of its trajectory toward an end.

The image of that end is articulated elsewhere in Psalms. The wicked are compared to grass: it grows quickly, spreads widely, fills the field, and creates the illusion of permanence. Yet grass has no depth and no root. By its very nature it is fleeting (see Psalms 37 and 92). Its rapid growth is not a sign of endurance, but of impermanence.

Asaph teaches a profound historical truth: evil can occupy space for a long time, appear confident and loud, even dominate entire eras — but it is not anchored in eternity. Its end may not coincide with the span of a single human life, but it is embedded in the moral structure of history itself. The very sense of impunity that empowers it also leads it toward collapse.

The world today is undeniably changing. Certain nations become symbols of this transition, often at tremendous cost. Ukraine’s moral significance lies in the fact that it rose against a monstrous force and refused to live according to the logic of fear. Those who stand first always bear the heaviest burden. History is rarely gentle with pioneers, but it is they who reshape the architecture of the world.

Those who once proclaimed their desire to dismantle a world led by the United States ultimately achieved the opposite. Through hatred, war, and alliances rooted in destruction, they forced a return to harsh reality. The world once again understands the language of responsibility and strength. History has a direction. We may not always perceive it within a single lifetime, but we have seen empires fall, dynasties vanish, ideologies dissolve into dust. None of them believed in their own end. Yet it came.

There is another quiet law spoken by Torah and history alike. Those who mock, curse, and humiliate others because they perceive them as weak ultimately fashion their own verdict. Humiliation is never neutral. Often, what is spoken as a curse becomes a blessing for its target — and a judgment for the one who uttered it.

This applies to individuals and to states. Loud, rapid success built on fear and contempt may appear impressive, but Jewish tradition never measures success by speed. It measures it by direction.

Moses articulated this with uncompromising clarity: “I place before you today life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life.” This is not poetry. It is a map of paths. There is a road that looks like ascent but is, in truth, the path of Cain — strength without responsibility, growth without limits, power without sanctity. It may yield wealth and control, but it never leads to lasting blessing.

Support for Donald Trump in this context is not a matter of personality cult or messianic fantasy. It reflects the recognition that in certain eras, God employs blunt instruments to restrain far greater evils. Scripture itself records leaders far from ideal who nonetheless played decisive roles in preserving life and order. History does not always select gentle figures for harsh times.

We do not bless war.

We do not romanticize power.

We do not justify cruelty.

We affirm only this: when the world approaches a point of no return, refusal to use strength can become a moral failure. If deterrence reduces the likelihood of catastrophe, then from a Jewish ethical perspective it is not politics. It is pikuach nefesh.

And if this discomforts some, that is tragic.

But when the alternative is silent waiting for destruction, Jewish tradition has always chosen life.