Parashat Lech Lecha: Having the courage to stand alone

It takes courage to stand alone against the beliefs of an entire society. Few experienced this loneliness as deeply as Abraham. In a world steeped in idolatry, he introduced humanity to belief in one God. Abraham was the first lonely man of faith.

His radical ideas enraged those around him, who tried to burn him alive. Miraculously, he survived. He later left his homeland and journeyed toward the land of God, crossing treacherous terrain and the great rivers of the Tigris and Euphrates.

He became known as Avraham Ha’Ivri, a name that reflected three aspects of his identity. By ancestry, he descended from Eber, a descendant of Noah. The word Ivri also means someone from the other side, “ever.”

Geographically, Abraham had traveled from beyond the great rivers, leaving his homeland to settle in a new land. Ideologically, he stood on one side of a great divide, bravely opposing an entire civilization that could not imagine a single God. Abraham came from the other side of the river and had the courage to stand on the other side of the world.

Soon after arriving in the Land of Israel, Abraham found himself caught up in a regional war. The conflict became personal when his nephew Lot was taken captive. Abraham joined the battle and defeated four powerful warlords who had conquered and enslaved five neighboring populations. With his small force, he confronted armies far more powerful than his own.

The name Avraham Ha’Ivri now took on another meaning. Beyond his ancestry and journey across rivers, he stood on one side against powerful enemies on the other. Significantly, the only time the Torah explicitly calls him Avraham Ha’Ivri is during this war.

Abraham’s willingness to stand alone would become a defining feature of our nation. As his descendants, we would desperately need that same strength. We were meant to be a different people, committed to the values God taught us even when others challenge them.

We were chosen for responsibility rather than privilege, expected to live by higher standards and reflect the dignity of a life lived in God’s presence. Throughout history, we would face a choice between Abraham’s courage to remain different despite our loneliness and the temptation to surrender that difference for acceptance.

Exile intensified this loneliness. Scattered in small communities, we lived as guests in other people’s homelands, often regarded as outsiders. Empires rose and great religions spread while we remained small and vulnerable. Yet we preserved our identity and faith, following Abraham’s example. Wherever we lived, we held firmly to our faith and traditions, even when doing so set us apart from the surrounding society. The price of remaining different was often high.

With the birth of Israel, that loneliness began to ease in two ways. We could finally live together in our homeland, speaking a common language and sharing a national identity. We could preserve our distinctiveness while enjoying the dignity of sovereignty. We no longer had to explain why our lives were different.

At the same time, Israel gradually gained acceptance abroad. Over 75 years, our military strength, economy, and technological achievements earned international respect. Diplomatic relationships expanded. Countries sought our expertise, welcomed our innovations, and increasingly treated Israel as a valuable partner even when old prejudices lingered. We felt less alone both because we had one another and because the wider world seemed increasingly willing to accept us.

Oct. 7 shattered much of that confidence in our “acceptance.” The massacre in the South had barely ended, yet by October 8, protesters were already condemning Israel and portraying us as the aggressors. As we fought a just war against those who attacked us, we faced fierce condemnation and spurious accusations of terrible crimes. Israel has been sidelined, marginalized, and boycotted. Even our right to exist has been questioned, a challenge rarely directed at other nations.

After decades in which we believed that our legitimacy had become an accepted fact, we discovered how quickly old arguments could reappear. Once again, we find ourselves in the footsteps of Avraham Ha’Ivri, standing on the other side of a world that struggles to accept us.

This renewed Ivri status extends far beyond Israel. Across the Western world, opposition to Israel has frequently spilled over into antisemitism. Jewish students face intimidation on campuses, Jewish institutions require heightened security, and many Jews feel increasing pressure to conceal their identity. Generations of hard-won acceptance suddenly feel fragile. Jews who once felt completely at home in their countries are discovering how quickly they can be made to feel like an outsider.

Whether in Israel or abroad, we are once again being called upon to follow in the footsteps of our common ancestor Abraham and summon the courage to be Ivrim, even when that means standing alone.

Most Jews are answering the Ivri call. Since Oct. 7, hostility toward Jews has only strengthened the Jewish identity of many who had previously felt disconnected from our people. Many Jews who had placed great faith in liberal democracies and their promises of equality have begun to reconsider that confidence.

We cannot always rely on others to defend our rights nor can we assume that social justice movements will also stand up for Jews. Sadly, many who champion the rights of other minorities show little concern for Jewish vulnerability. This painful awakening has drawn many Jews closer to their people.

While many Jews have embraced the courage of Avraham Ha’Ivri, standing firm in the face of a hostile world, others remain uncomfortable with the prospect of standing apart. Eager for acceptance, some have distanced themselves from Israel, even turning against its very legitimacy. There is a painful irony in disavowing a state that has become a vital anchor of Jewish identity and security. In their desire to be accepted by others, they are distancing themselves from their own people.

This sad pattern has tragic precedents. Throughout history, many Jews seeking acceptance in the wider world have been willing to sacrifice their faith and surrender core elements of their Jewish identity. In their desire to belong, they sometimes abandoned the core traditions and beliefs that had sustained our people for generations.

In the Hellenistic era, some Jews concealed their circumcision to fit into Greek society. During the Christian Middle Ages, some Jews converted to Christianity, viewing baptism as a ticket of entry into a Christian-dominated world.

In the 19th century, as Jews were invited to participate more fully in European society, many surrendered aspects of their Jewish culture and identity to feel more comfortable in the emerging culture of modern Europe. Later, in Eastern Europe, some Jews enthusiastically joined the Communist revolution, exchanging their Jewish identity for a place in a movement they believed would usher in a new era of equality and progress.

Today, we are witnessing another version of this familiar pattern. In some social and cultural circles, public opposition to Israel has become a badge of acceptance. Some Jews feel that gaining approval in these environments, particularly on social media, requires them to distance themselves from Israel or even openly condemn it. The barter has changed, but the tragedy remains: Jewish identity is once again being traded for public acceptance.

Abraham taught us that standing alone requires courage. After Oct. 7, we are once again discovering that our identity and our future cannot depend upon the approval of others. To be an Ivri is to remain faithful to our convictions even when the world stands against us.■

The writer is a rabbi and educator at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush). Find his latest book, Echoes of Rashi: Bereishit, at mtaraginbooks.com