The Prophets had their list. So did the Rebbe.
The Future of the Jews
The American Jewish Committee (AJC) once hosted a symposium on the topic: What will the Jewish people look like in 100 years?
The panel featured some very prominent figures: the renowned scholar Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, acclaimed Israeli author A.B. Yehoshua, American journalist Ted Koppel of NBC’s Nightline, literary critic Leon Wieseltier, and others.
Early in the discussion, A.B. Yehoshua made a bold statement. He said that, in his view, being Jewish means living in Israel. Period. According to him, Jewish life in America has no real meaning.
He went even further, drawing a sharp contrast between Israeli Jews and American Jews. For him, Jewish identity is his “skin and flesh”—something essential and inseparable. But for American Jews, he claimed, Judaism is “like a jacket”—something you put on and take off. He mocked those who attend synagogue, read from the Chumash, and then go home and carry on as if nothing happened—as if their Judaism was confined to the synagogue walls. To Yehoshua, being Jewish means living every moment with Jewish consciousness, and in his view, that’s only truly possible in Israel.
But with all due respect to Mr. Yehoshua, a few questions naturally arise.
First: If living in Israel is what defines a Jewish life, then what about the many Druze citizens of Israel? They live in Israel, speak Hebrew, serve in the army, pay taxes, and contribute to society. Does that make them Jewish?
The truth is—and it’s painful to admit—it’s entirely possible to live in Israel and still be very far from living a Jewish life. One can live in the land of Israel and still be, as some have put it, “a Hebrew-speaking gentile.”
The Prophet’s Take
But this question—what it means to truly live like a Jew—isn’t a new one.
We were all born Jewish. The real question is: How are we meant to live as Jews? What does that actually look like in everyday life?
It turns out that this question was asked many centuries ago—and not by just anyone. The Talmud tells us that Dovid HaMelech, King David himself, wanted to define what it means to live a genuine Jewish life. He didn’t say, as some mistakenly do today, that only someone who keeps all 613 mitzvos is really living like a Jew. Rather, he asked: What are the core mitzvos that define a Jewish way of life?
And in the final pages of Tractate Makkos (24a), the Talmud says: “Along came David and reduced it to eleven mitzvos.” In other words, King David identified eleven core behaviors—eleven qualities—that, if a person lives by them, you can say they are truly living a Jewish life.
So what are these eleven?
- “Walk uprightly” – A Jew must be like Avraham Avinu, who followed G-d without question, with integrity and trust.
- “Do what is right” – This means being honest and faithful in your work. The Talmud gives the example of Abba Chilkiya, the grandson of Choni HaMa’agel. He was such a devoted worker that he wouldn’t even stop to greet other sages in the field, because he didn’t want to waste a moment of his employer’s time. That’s what it means to be righteous in your work.
- “Speak truth in your heart” – This isn’t just about telling the truth—it’s about being deeply honest, even when no one else knows what’s in your heart. The Talmud tells a story about Rav Safra, who was once in the middle of reciting Shema when someone came to negotiate a purchase. The buyer made him an offer, which Rav Safra silently accepted—but he couldn’t say so aloud because he was still praying. Thinking Rav Safra didn’t like the price, the buyer raised the offer. But when Rav Safra finished praying, he insisted on taking the original, lower offer—because he had already accepted it in his heart. That’s what it means to speak truthfully from within.
The prophets understood that true change doesn’t happen all at once. You don’t take someone who’s never exercised and suddenly have them run a marathon. You start with small, sustainable changes—fifteen minutes of walking, one less sugary drink a day. It’s the same in Yiddishkeit. Start with a few core mitzvos that shape who you are—and build from there.
So the Talmud goes on to list the rest of King David’s eleven: don’t slander, don’t harm others, show respect for Torah scholars, never charge interest, and so on. Just eleven things—but they define a life of meaning, integrity, and Jewish values.
Generations went by. And then came Yeshayahu HaNavi—the Prophet Isaiah—who further narrowed it down. To live like a Jew, he said, meant six things: give charity, be kind and warm toward others, don’t take advantage of your friend’s business, carry yourself with dignity, and a few other core values. Isaiah, like King David before him, focused on how we relate to other people—how we show up in the world.
More time passed, and then came the Prophet Micah. He made it even simpler. To live a Jewish life, he said, comes down to just three things: Do justice. Love kindness. And walk humbly with your G-d. Again, the focus was on how we treat others—and how we carry our relationship with G-d in a quiet, humble way.
And finally, the Talmud ends with a powerful line: “Then came the Prophet Chavakuk, and he reduced it all to one thing.”
What is that one thing?
“And a righteous person shall live by their faith.”
A full Jewish life—summed up in one word: emunah. Faith.
Moral vs. Spiritual
Now, when we take a step back and look at everything the Prophets demanded of the Jewish people over the generations, we notice something both surprising and a little puzzling.
They only emphasized the moral mitzvos—the ethical commandments, the ones that govern how we treat one another. Things like speaking truthfully, giving charity, acting with kindness, and judging fairly.
But what about putting on tefillin? What about keeping Shabbos, eating kosher, building a sukkah, or having a Pesach seder? None of that is mentioned in their summaries of what it means to live a Jewish life.
It seems strange. Are those things somehow not Jewish? Is giving a coin to tzedakah more “Jewish” than keeping the laws of Shabbos? Is telling the truth more important than reciting the Shema?
But here’s the key: During the time of the Prophets, the Jewish people lived in the Land of Israel. And in that context, the ritual mitzvos—the ones between us and G-d—were simply a given. They were part of everyday Jewish life. Everyone kept kosher. Everyone put on tefillin. Everyone kept Shabbos. These weren’t up for debate or neglect. They were automatic.
The problem was on the other side of the spectrum: the moral, interpersonal side. Business ethics were lacking. People were cheating, cutting corners, showing no compassion to the poor. Judges took bribes. The courts weren’t fair. That’s where things were falling apart.
So naturally, that’s what the Prophets focused on. That’s where they raised their voices—because that was the area of weakness. (Aside from avodah zarah, idol worship, which they also condemned fiercely—because once a person stops believing in G-d, all morals eventually crumble.)
So when King David, Isaiah, and Micah tried to distill what it means to live as a Jew, they weren’t rejecting the rest of the mitzvos. They were simply addressing the crisis of their generation. And that crisis was in how people treated one another.
The Flip of Exile
But then came exile—and everything flipped.
It was specifically in exile that the Jewish people became known as the most moral nation on earth. We became, in the words of the prophet, a light unto the nations. And history proves it. Ever since then, Jews have been at the forefront of compassion—feeling the pain of the poor, caring for the sick, advocating for the oppressed—often more than anyone else.
But with exile came a new challenge.
When the Jews lived in their land, ritual observance wasn’t the issue. Everyone kept kosher. Everyone put on tefillin. Everyone kept Shabbos. It was second nature. But once we were scattered among the nations, a weakness slowly crept in—not in our morals, but in our mitzvos between Man and G-d.
We see this clearly in the story of Megillas Esther, which we read on Purim. The trouble began when Jews attended the royal feast of King Achashverosh—a celebration that symbolized assimilation and the weakening of Jewish identity. That kind of assimilation doesn’t happen when a Jew is strong in the mitzvos that define who he is. It happens when those rituals start to slip.
In exile, Jews have remained incredibly strong in the mitzvos we share with the world—helping the needy, comforting the sick, pursuing justice. But over time—especially in the last two centuries, and tragically even more so after the Holocaust—our observance of the distinctly Jewish mitzvos, the ones between us and G-d, has weakened.
And so, we circle back to the question we’ve been asking all along:
What does it really mean to live like a Jew?
The Rebbe’s Campaign
And then along came the Rebbe—and continued the path of the Prophets.
Just like the Prophets of old, who isolated a handful of mitzvos and said, “If you live by these, you’re truly living like a Jew,” the Rebbe, too, highlighted key mitzvos that are most critical for the survival and identity of the Jewish people in our generation.
The Rebbe didn’t demand that every Jew take on the entire Torah at once. He didn’t start with Shabbos. Instead, he focused on the mitzvos that visibly and clearly affirm Jewish identity: He encouraged men to put on tefillin, women and girls to light Shabbos candles, families to buy only kosher meat, to fill their homes with Jewish books, and to get involved—even just a little—in Torah learning. These, the Rebbe said, are the foundations. This is what it means to live like a Jew today.
Because you can live in the Holy Land, speak Hebrew, vote in elections, serve in the army—and still be completely disconnected from what it means to live a Jewish life. What matters is not your zip code. It’s whether you’re doing mitzvos that affirm who you are as a Jew—mitzvos that set you apart.
And that brings us back to this week’s Parshah: “If you follow My statutes and observe My commandments, then all the blessings will come.” Notice what the Torah doesn’t say. It doesn’t say that these blessings are dependent on living in Israel. The condition is clear: follow My mitzvos.
As Rashi explains elsewhere, the word chukim—“statutes”—refers to the kinds of mitzvos that seem irrational, that the Evil Inclination mocks, and that the nations of the world question—like not eating pork, or not mixing wool and linen. In other words, mitzvos that make us stand out.
To live in Israel and be “Israeli,” the way a Brit is British or a Chinese person is Chinese—that’s not living like a Jew. A Jew is supposed to be different. The more we embrace that difference, the more Jewish we become.
My friends, let’s take this message from the Parshah to heart. Let’s choose one small but meaningful step forward in the mitzvos that define us. One action that reminds us—and the world—who we are.
Good Shabbos.
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