When I spoke recently to a group of teenagers about our tradition, I was met with a wave of challenging questions—questions about the historical accuracy and even the divine authorship of the Torah. They were sharp, articulate, and at times irreverent—and I loved it. Their questioning reminded me of my own teenage years, when I too felt uncomfortable with traditional explanations of our sacred texts. It took many years, and a personal journey of study and struggle, before I began to glimpse the Torah’s deeper truth. What I eventually came to understand is that the most profound aspect of Torah lies not in its historical precision, nor even in its status as a sacred document handed down from Heaven. Its power resides in its humanity.
The Torah is a tapestry of interwoven stories and laws that speak to the human condition. We relate to it because we see ourselves reflected in its characters—their hopes, their flaws, their courage, their failings. Unlike the mythic heroes of other traditions, our ancestors are human beings who wrestle with jealousy, fear, love, anger, and doubt—just as we do. And in their moments of compassion and faith, they reveal the heights of the human spirit. It is precisely this imperfection that draws us in. The Torah sanctifies the messy, complicated, beautiful process of being human. It teaches that holiness is not somewhere “out there” but is found in the striving itself—in the way we live and love and fail and begin again.
This week’s portion, Lech Lecha, begins with a divine command that seems to erupt out of silence: “YHVH said to Abram, Lech lecha—Go forth (to yourself) from your native land, from your father’s house, to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1).
To understand this moment, we must see it as a response to last week’s portion, Noach. The Midrash teaches that Abraham’s story begins where Noah’s ends. Noah is described as “a righteous man, perfect in his generation.” (Gen. 6:9). Rashi comments: “In his generation—but not necessarily in others.” Some sages defend Noah, but others, like Rabbi Yehudah, read this as faint praise. Noah obeys God, but he remains silent in the face of human suffering. When God tells him the world will be destroyed, he builds an ark—but he does not argue, he does not pray for mercy, he does not protest.
Then comes Abraham. When he learns that Sodom is to be destroyed, he cries out, “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do justice?” (Gen. 18:25). Abraham challenges God in the name of righteousness. The Midrash contrasts the two: Noah walked with God—needing divine support—whereas Abraham walked before God, taking moral initiative. Abraham does not wait for instructions; he steps into the unknown, guided by conscience and compassion.
If Noah represents survival, Abraham represents transformation. Where Noah preserves life, Abraham expands it. Where Noah builds an ark to protect his own, Abraham builds a tent open on all sides—to welcome others in. And perhaps this is the deeper connection between Noach and Lech Lecha: after the flood, humanity needed more than preservation—it needed purpose. It needed a new kind of righteousness, one rooted not only in obedience but in empathy, not only in faith but in moral courage.
In our time, as our own ark—the fragile planet we share—is imperiled by violence, fear, and environmental devastation, we cannot afford to be Noahs. We need Abrahams: people who will question, who will act, who will speak out for life in all its forms. The Hasidic masters read Lech lecha as “Go to yourself”—to your essence, to that spark of the Divine within. Abraham’s journey is every soul’s journey: the call to leave behind false certainties and rediscover the sacred source within. When we walk that inner path, we become partners in the unfolding of creation itself. Like Abraham, we are called to go forth—to ourselves—and in doing so, to help steer our ark toward healing, justice, and hope.
Shabbat Shalom
Rabbi George Mordecai