The judge turned to the first thief. “What’s your name? Who’s your father?”
The young man answered, and the judge’s face tightened. “Ah, I knew your father. Spent more time in jail than out of it. A professional, really.” He let out a weary sigh, as if this were all a regrettable but predictable turn of events.
Then he turned to the second thief. “And you?”
The second young man spoke his name. The judge’s eyebrows arched. “Your father is Rabbi so-and-so?”
The thief nodded.
“And your grandfather? The famous scholar?”
Another nod.
The judge leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, his expression troubled. He paused, then banged his gavel.
He delivered the sentences. The first thief got off relatively lightly—just a short stint in prison, enough to keep up family tradition. The second, however, was handed a much harsher sentence.
At this, the rabbi’s son flushed crimson. “How is this fair? We committed the same crime! Why is my punishment worse than his?”
The judge folded his hands and spoke slowly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a child. “Your friend grew up in a house where crime was the family business. His father was more familiar with a prison cell than his own living room. What else could you expect? He deserves some leniency."
“But you?” The judge shook his head. “You were raised in a fine home, with a respected family, surrounded by books, ethics, and morals. You should know better. And because you should know better, you deserve worse.”
Remembering the Patriarchs
In the rebuke of the Tochechah, God declares, “Then I will remember My covenant with Jacob, as well as My covenant with Isaac, and My covenant with Abraham” (Lev. 26:42).
At first glance, this sounds comforting. A reminder of our righteous ancestors—surely this should bring mercy, not punishment. But the next verse is anything but merciful: “The land will thus be emptied of them.”
Why this harshness?
Because this remembrance is not a reason for deliverance—it is an indictment. “I know your ancestors,” God says. “I know their strength, their faith, their sacrifices. And you—their children, their heirs—have abandoned their ways? If you had come from nowhere, perhaps your mistakes could be excused. But you are the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. You should know better.”Kosher Pride
Some say to themselves, “Who am I to perform this mitzvah? I’m no saint. I am flawed, just a simple human being. Why pretend to be more than I am?” But this is not modesty—it is self-sabotage, a whisper of the evil inclination disguised as humility.
And then there are who say, “How can I sin? How can I degrade myself in this way? I am a child of kings, the heir to a noble legacy. I come from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, from Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. How can I forget who I am?”
This is not arrogance; this is dignity. The pride that keeps us from stumbling, the whisper of the yetzer tov, reminding us of who we truly are.
