Behar–Bechukotai and the Meaning of Our Moment
In Parashat Behar–Bechukotai, we encounter one of the most sobering passages in the Torah—the Tochacha, the description of exile, suffering, and dislocation that has shaped so much of Jewish history. But suddenly, the Torah pivots from devastation to memory, from curse to covenant:
“Then will I remember My covenant with Yaakov; I will remember also My covenant with Yitzchak, and also My covenant with Avraham; and I will remember the land.” (Vayikra 26:42)
It is a familiar verse. But upon closer reflection, it is deeply puzzling.
Why the reverse order? Why begin with Yaakov and move backward to Avraham?
And why does the Torah speak of three separate covenants—“My covenant with Yaakov… My covenant with Yitzchak… My covenant with Avraham”—rather than presenting them as a single unified legacy?
Three Covenants
As Rav Hirsch explains, this is not merely a reference to three individuals, but to three distinct historical stages—three different modes through which the Jewish people live out their covenantal existence in the world.
For much of our history, we have lived in the world of Yaakov. It was a world defined by endurance: exile, vulnerability, and dependence on forces beyond our control. Like Yaakov preparing to meet Esav, we learned to navigate reality through a careful balance of prayer, diplomacy, and restraint. We bowed when necessary—not because we lacked dignity, but because survival demanded it. That long era forged a people of extraordinary spiritual resilience, a people who carried Torah through darkness with unwavering faith.
But the Torah in Bechukotai hints that this is not the final stage.
Between Yaakov and Avraham stands Yitzchak—often the least discussed of the Avot, but nevertheless the most relevant to us. Yitzchak’s life does not unfold in dramatic journeys or sweeping transformations. Instead, it takes place in a quieter but more complex reality. He is not celebrated like Avraham, but not beset with difficulties and torment like Yaakov. He is successful, prosperous, and firmly established—and at the same time, envied and resented.
He builds, he plants, he develops—and again and again he is pushed back by those around him. He is told to leave because he has become too strong. His neighbors do not love him, but neither is he subject to them. And in the end, those same neighbors come to him and acknowledge what they cannot deny: that his success reflects something greater than himself.
Yitzchak is not embraced. But yet he stands strong.
It is difficult to ignore how precisely this reflects our present moment.
For the first time in nearly two thousand years, the Jewish people are no longer merely surviving history—we are participating in it, shaping it in visible and consequential ways. The return to the Land of Israel, the establishment and defense of the State, the rebuilding of Torah life on an unprecedented scale both in Israel and the Diaspora, and the emergence of Jewish strength and influence throughout the world — all of this represents a fundamental shift in Jewish existence.
And yet, alongside this extraordinary blessing, something deeply familiar persists. The nations do not relate to us with the acceptance we might hope for. Instead, we encounter suspicion, criticism, and at times open hostility — often wildly disproportionate to reality. The more visible our success becomes, the more it seems to provoke reaction.
In recent months, as Israel has been forced once again to defend itself under intense global scrutiny, we have seen this pattern play out with striking clarity — military necessity met with moral accusation, self-defense recast as aggression, and a world quick to judge yet slow to understand.
This is not a contradiction. It The Age of Yitzchak.
A Different Kind of Exile Has Ended
One of the great dangers of our time is that we may continue to think and respond as though we are still living in the world of Yaakov. The instinct is understandable. It has been ingrained over centuries. If we explain ourselves better, soften our tone, and be sufficiently careful and conciliatory, perhaps we will be accepted. Perhaps the hostility will subside.
But both history and Torah suggest otherwise. The strategies of Yaakov were not mistakes — they were necessities. They allowed us to survive when survival itself was uncertain. But they were suited to a particular reality. To continue operating exclusively within that framework when the underlying conditions have changed is not humility — it is a failure to recognize the nature of the moment Hashem has placed us in.
It is true that within the Torah world, there have been different reactions and attitudes toward the State of Israel and toward contemporary events. Among the Gedolim and leaders, some have rejected any recognition of the State as a positive force in Jewish history. Others have embraced it as a great privilege, even as the beginning of redemption. Most have taken positions somewhere between those poles. It is not my place to take sides in that debate.
But it is very clear that Rav Hirsch, at least, understood that a time would come in which the old patterns of Jewish response to the nations around us would no longer apply in the same way. He envisioned a stage in which the Jewish people would no longer be defined solely by weakness and exile, but would have to navigate a reality of relative strength, prosperity, and visibility—while remaining faithful to their unique mission.
Rav Hirsch was not a proponent of secular nationalism. But everything we know about his thought suggests that had he lived to see our time, he would have recognized that we have arrived—far more clearly than in his own nineteenth-century Germany—at the stage he described as the Covenant of Yitzchak. The limited opening of the ghettos in his day, which he cautiously interpreted as a possible transition, pales in comparison to the transformation we are witnessing now.
This recognition carries with it both privilege and responsibility.
The Covenant of Yitzchak is not a celebration of power for its own sake. Yitzchak’s strength is never detached from an awareness of its source. His success points beyond himself. That awareness is what defines him.
So too in our time. The ability of the Jewish people—and of the State of Israel—to endure, to defend itself, and at times to prevail against overwhelming odds is not merely a geopolitical fact. It reflects a level of Divine assistance that is difficult to ignore. To recognize that is not a retreat from strength—it is what gives that strength meaning.
At the same time, to ignore the responsibility that accompanies this moment would be equally problematic. For centuries, Jewish life was largely reactive. We responded to what was imposed upon us. Today, we are called upon to be proactive—to build, to shape, and to define what Jewish life looks like not only in private, but in the public sphere of history.
That is a far more demanding challenge.
The Courage to Live as Yitzchak
It requires not only faith, but confidence. Not only resilience, but clarity. It requires the ability to stand without apology, while remaining deeply aware that our strength is not independent of the One who sustains it.
The trajectory outlined in Bechukotai does not end with Yitzchak. It moves forward toward Avraham—a stage in which the Jewish people are not merely tolerated or even respected, but recognized as a source of blessing. That stage has not yet fully arrived. But the path toward it runs through the reality we are now living.
We are, it would seem, in the age of Yitzchak.
For those interested in exploring this idea more fully, I have written a series of essays developing what I have called the “Isaac Covenant,” tracing this theme through Torah sources and contemporary events (available on this blog, starting here).
To live in such a time is a privilege that previous generations could scarcely have imagined. To recognize it, to understand its demands, and to respond to it with both strength and humility—that is the challenge before us.
Even after the darkest chapters of exile, the covenant does not simply restore us to what we once were. It moves us forward, stage by stage, toward what we are meant to become.
Our task is to recognize where we stand—and to have the courage to stand there fully.
